The Rebirth
by DoctorDo
Summary: G1AU. Cybertron has been restored, and massive advancements are being made to accept the Decepticon's members. Many have called it the Rebirth of Cybertron, though even the best ideas have their dissenters. Decepticon Rebel attacks rock the fragile peace of postwar Cybertron, and a former prison ship leaves for a lost colony. Meanwhile, on the planet Nebulos . . . two ships crash.
1. Emergence

**Author's Note (2/18/19):** And so it begins.

If you're familiar with my (admittedly small number of) stories, you know that this isn't the first edition of The Rebirth. That came about a year and a half ago from the writing of this note, back when I was still starting out as a Fanfiction writer. In retrospect, my first chapters and stories weren't as bad as I had previously thought back around Chapter Five - they were so much worse!

Many of them, especially the first three chapters, were rife with continuity errors, bland dialogue, OOC moments that didn't contribute to anything, and contrived coincidences that served no purpose but to push the story along. It wasn't until a few months ago that I finally realized what needed to be done - I had to go back and fix them, for the good of the story. Many visitors had come to my stories, but very few of them ever made it past the first chapter (Phenometron, I give you kudos for making it this far! Thank you much!). Some more stalwart readers skipped ahead, reading the later chapters, but ultimately became disinterested and left.

And so, dear readers, I present to you the first chapter of my story: lengthened, strengthened, and generally much better (in my opinion) than it was before! I hope you enjoy it.

The companion piece for this chapter over at DeviantArt is still Autobot Hardhead, and I am still known as Dr-Do in those waters. However, it would be advisable to keep an eye on the earlier art pieces, as they are also due for some makeovers in the future to come.

The other chapters of this story are currently being rewritten as well, and I have a fresh new chapter of The Rebirth on the way.

Alright, I think that's about it, update-wise. Please enjoy the story and keep looking for those chapter fixes! Thank you.

-The Doctor (Do)

* * *

"Resistance, it is with a heavy heart that I come before you today."

Avoy Duros entered the nondescript shed in his backyard at a brisk sprint, his favorite Thokian Leather trenchcoat billowing behind him as he slammed the ramshackle door shut, simultaneously moving to ensure that the one-way opaque black glaze on the shack's only window was still intact and functioning as normal. Despite the utility shed's dilapidated and unremarkable appearance, it was pretty roomy, able to cozily fit all thirty-one trusted members of his Nebulan Resistance. As about a quarter of them hadn't been able to attend tonight's meeting, there was plenty of room to spare.

Nervous murmurings and chatters came from the assembled Resistance while he finished his check-up, only to stop expectantly as he faced them.

"Before I say what needs to be said here, let's make one thing clear. I've never forced any of you to perform our Zetca-given duties as good Nebulan citizens, however, I've never forced any of the more . . . _militaristic_ individuals in this group to back down from a particularly challenging engagement, as long as you leave citizens and NSF personnel out of our, ah, personal grievances with the Institute, yes?"

A wave of uneasy agreement moved through the twenty-five or so people who were present. In the back of the room, David Z'náme shifted uneasily in his folding chair and did his best to melt into the shadows of the Resistance HQ.

"Well, I'm afraid the last raid on a Peace Warrior outpost has gone terribly wrong. We may be compromised, as a matter of fact."

As Duros expected, the small shed was immediately filled with alarmed shouts and furious conversation.

"Enough, please," he said, remaining calm. The others were uneasy but followed suit and quieted down slightly. "We don't know if the Warriors know exactly who we are or even _where_ we are, but I think it's best if we err on the side of caution and assume that they're narrowing down a location right this instant. At work today, I was informed that Pierce - who's working the night shift with Flint and couldn't make it tonight - overheard talk among several passing Enforcers about a people's rebellion, which they believed was within less than two square miles from this very base of operations."

"Two miles - that's nothing to the Institute," Silas Lancer observed. "If Zarak really thinks there's a rebellion in Neoavún, he could move a Warrior unit or three over here, block the town roads off, and have us dead by daybreak tomorrow if he wants."

"That - _that_ is exactly why we need to start panicking, Si! I didn't sign up for this! I've kept to the idea of a _peaceful_ revolution ever since this group was nothing but a weekly tea party!" a thin, somewhat shabby man in the front whimpered hysterically. "Duros, please don't tell me that I'm going to be sent to the Rock just because my hyperviolent friends won't stop biting off far more than any of us can chew!"

"I say let them come, Quiggman. We won't bring freedom to the Nebulan people with a few well-worded and elegantly reasoned papers. Revolutions don't come quietly, and if I have to die for the cause, then so be it." Lynn Fong replied.

"And _that's_ why I'll probably end up either dead or locked away in a reeducation center come next week, if that," Graeme muttered, sinking back into his chair.

"You're not going anywhere except safely to your own home, Graeme," Duros said with steely determination. "We'll make sure of that. However, for everyone's safety and for the preservation of the progress we've made so far, I think it would be best if we . . ." the leader of the Resistance sighed, "laid low for a while, so to speak. Just long enough to make it under the Institute's radar. Eventually, they'll move on to some other, more pressing concern and leave us alone - and then we'll resume all operations _in_ _**force**_."

Duros checked his watch, an old relic once belonging to his grandfather. The strap, which was made of the same leather that his coat was, was heavily worn and stained, and the face was spiderwebbed with cracks. Despite all of its shortcomings, it was still superior in his eyes to any other timepiece, especially the bugged mini-computers that were sold in nearly every store on Nebulos. As a bonus, it reminded him of family that was no longer with him.

"We've got a bit of time left. I'd suggest that you all say goodbye to each other. It may be some time before we are assembled again."

And so the Resistance broke up into small groups to do so. Duros took the time to approach David, who immediately began fervently apologizing for his recent failure.

"By Zetca's Banner, I'm so sorry, Duros. I thought Erik and I could handle just a small outpost! We've certainly gone up against worse before. Erik got away with taking out their supply yard, but I completely dropped the ball on the main base. It's all my fault. Please, friend, forgive me. I'll make it up to the Resistance once we come back, I swear."

Duros nodded soberly. "It's fine, David, as long as you and Erik are safe. What's important now is that we stay that way and keep quiet for a while. Then, as I said, we can regroup and make a bold return."

David set his jaw and stiffened up a little bit. "A 'bold' return, you say. Ha. Avoy, I have no doubt that we could tear the Institute a new one if only we had . . . more. We lack manpower. We lack firepower. And the Institute gets stronger every single day. If we're going to do anything significant in this universe at all, we need better gear and more volunteers. How are we going to make an impact if we don't have the tools we need to achieve victory?"

Duros thought about this for a moment, and opened his mouth to reply; but at that moment there was an enormous roaring noise from outside that shook the shed itself to its very foundations. The window rattled and the single overhead light danced back and forth as the assembled members of the Resistance dashed outside as one, staring up in horror at the sky. Like some kind of colossal meteor plunging to earth, a massive starship wreathed in flames and pouring thick black smoke into the night sky hung overhead in an inexorable fall to the rugged Nebulan landscape below. Its engines, deprived of any useful fuel to burn, were making the all-encompassing roar that shook all of them to the bone, vaguely reminiscent of a determined scream as it passed overhead. As the pitch reached the loudest it had been thus far, most of the Resistance members clapped their hands over their ears and dropped to the ground.

Because of this, over half of the gathered Resistance didn't see the ship's impact, the mushroom cloud that ballooned upwards just west of Argent Peak - or the second flaming starship that streaked through the first's smoke plume and headed off to the south. They did, however, feel the shockwave that came soon afterward, the one that sent anyone who was still standing to the well-maintained turf of Duros's backyard.

When the worst was over, the entire Resistance rose to their feet with the exception of Duros, who dashed across the lawn and into his house, shouting the names of his two children and his wife. For a moment they stood there, watching the cloud of smoke in horror. Then, however, someone spoke, breaking the silence and sending everyone into furious conversation.

"We need to help those poor souls!" a female voice remarked, probably belonging to Ginevra Bough.

"Absolutely NOT, Ginevra, and I don't care if I have to physically tackle you and Cletus to stop you! With a crash of that size, the Institute will be all over this entire region in a matter of minutes!" someone else replied hotly.

"I'm with Lewis on this one," Chiron Coyle, one of the oldest members of the Resistance, conceded. "It's not safe to chase after that crash. It would be best for all of us if we just went home while we still can - before our opponents respond to the incident."

"Ditto," David shouted over the light clamor. "For all of our safeties, we should leave as soon as possible."

"What do you know about safety, David? You're the reason why we're here tonight," Ginevra's burly fiancé, Cletus Amprage, growled.

"Hey, hey, hey! There's no need for personal attacks, buddy! Everyone makes mistakes once in a while!"

"And there's no time to argue, Brick! We need to go NOW!"

"I'm not disagreeing with you, Si, ol' pal, but I just think we could stand to tone down the hostility here!"

At that moment, Duros, his wife, Maureen, and their two children stepped onto the back porch of the home. The spouses seemed to be having a hurried conversation which was resolved rather quickly, as Duros nodded, said goodbye to his family, and turned to leave as Maureen ushered the kids back into the house.

"We need to respond to the crash in _some_ way, everyone," Duros said as soon as he got within earshot of the Resistance. "There are most likely lifeforms in there that need immediate attention, and we're the only ones who can do so right now."

"But what about the Peace Warriors, Avoy? If they see us assembled, especially with the likes of David or Lynn among our ranks, we'll be arrested - or worse!" Graeme noted. Duros thought this through for a moment, then seemed to reach a conclusion.

"Then they go home. All of you who have reservations about going to the crash site, you can leave too. But leave with the knowledge that there are lifeforms in that wreck, same as you or me, and that your help or lack thereof could possibly result in the - er, situation getting much - much worse for those in need." Duros paused, swallowing once as his eyes became steelier, his face shifting from the usual carefully guarded expression to a determined gaze. "Now, follow me if you will - but hurry up about it. We can only do so much to help before the authorities arrive."

* * *

Duros's car skidded to a stop. He didn't have time to check the axle of his cruiser, no doubt trashed after that hairpin turn off the road. With one look at the amount of smoke that had already poured into the still night air, he knew it would be a long, stressful night.

He knew this place, of course - Argent Peak, an old planetary park that had been officially closed about twenty years ago, furloughed to provide more funding for the foundation of the Peace Warrior organization and the construction of their unapproachable compound in the west, the Torchlight. As a matter of fact, the park had been taken off of non-essential official record and very few modern Nebulans - and, of course, tourists - knew that it even existed as a natural wonder anymore.

The many forest service headquarters and visitor centers still stood, perfectly preserved and abandoned around the park, and Duros himself had taken his children here countless times during weekends and summers. As such, it pained him to see the devastation that had been wrought on the gorgeous area. Most of the trees in the area had been blown backward by the blast, the ones closer to the crash site reduced to charred logs. Even as the Resistors who had agreed to help came through the damaged treeline, a tiny part of Duros almost wished the authorities would come sooner. Almost.

He exited the car and turned to those who had already arrived: the three Denué brothers; Haír, Grady, and Faust. All three of them were tense and on edge, and Duros suspected he was too. With them stood Chiron Coyle, the old all-world Prismaball champion, and James Gort, a free-spirited teenager; one of Duros's most loyal and upstanding allies.

Two emaciated men slid out of his car: Selvig Knudsen, a disheveled Terran who had stowed away on a cruise starship five months ago and was now close enough with the Duros family to be considered an uncle; and Tyler Solomon, a renowned former fashion designer long since driven out of his life's work by a stronger competitor. He'd lost so much weight it appeared that he would collapse in a strong breeze. His formerly handsome face was now haggard and drawn and his blond hair had turned almost white from stress. Despite this, he donned a bright and colorful suit sewn together from scraps and tailored to fit his thin frame and somehow, it was still visually appealing and stylish.

One quick discussion later, during which the Resistance leader explained how he had activated his Security Force transponder and was now receiving a steady stream of updates from the NSF database, and the five men charged toward the ruined treeline just ahead. Haír and Faust stayed behind to direct any latecomers and set a working perimeter. It went unsaid, of course, that they were also keeping a vigilant eye out for the first signs of the Nebulan authorities.

Sadly, when the five finally reached the next ridge, they saw that their efforts would do very little to help. The ship had crashed in a deep, craggy valley, a canyon almost, pockmarked with caves and hollows, and had broken into several enormous pieces. From here, one could make out what was once probably a bridge section, several massive chunks of still-recognizable hull, and the burning frame of a passenger section covered with portholes silhouetted against the sheer cliffs and mountain bases that surrounded the crash site.

"Resistance, we need to secure the crash site!" he shouted over the roaring blaze in the valley as the remainder of the Resistance arrived behind him. "Spread out and look for survivors! We've only got about a half hour at most, so get moving!"

He started to move forward into the wide field of damage, but Selvig placed a hand on his shoulder, effectively stopping him. "Wait. Look to the big part. The vin - vindows have . . . er, what is the word? _De er sperret."_

"Selvig's right!" Tyler acknowledged, coming to a realization himself. "The portholes are barred - and reinforced!"

" _Det er et fengselsskip,"_ the Terran continued, almost cutting Tyler off.

"Avoy, are you sure we can do this? There could be some dangerous creatures lurking around the crash site."

"Then we stay together as one, Chiron," Duros said, drawing his stun pistol from a belt holster and sighing. The Institute-mandated firearm wasn't much, but it was the best measure of protection that he was allowed to have. "Now gather close and follow me."

The gravel crunched underneath their collective feet as they navigated the slope. As several of them had previously guessed, the crash site was entirely deserted, with not a soul - living or dead - to be found among the burning hulks of the wrecked ship. They combed through the debris field and stepped several times into the less-immolated sections, each one entirely bereft of life. The interior of this ship was unlike any prison ship any of them had ever been, with wide, vaulted hallways and vast side rooms that more closely brought to mind a government base rather than a prison. Duros considered himself an expert in these matters, but the architecture of the ship wasn't familiar to him.

 _It's not Kryptonian - there's not enough gold plating,_ he thought, trying to associate the wreck with something he'd seen before. _Reskaviit, maybe? By the Banner, this is an enigma . . ._

Suddenly, KC Poe, the only Corvian Duros had ever had an acquaintance - or, indeed, an intelligent conversation - with, silently landed beside the impromptu search party.

"Guys, you're looking in the wrong place!" she exclaimed, her beak clicking loudly between words. It was occasionally difficult to understand her because of this distinct physical problem, but KC was remarkably articulate for a member of an otherwise non-verbal race. "There's absolutely no sign of life up here! The bridge section, the prison, everything up here's as empty as - as - well, what I'm trying to say is that there's no people here."

"Very well. Do you think the ship was automated?" someone contested.

Instantly, Duros replied, "I'm afraid not, Chiron. It's not legal on most A-class worlds in the Local Sector to fully computerize a prison ship, even if it's been decommissioned to act as a materials transport like this one seems to be. Although, I am starting to doubt that I have any idea of what we're up against . . . KC, you said there's no sign of life _up here._ What did you mean by that?"

The Corvian seemed to mull things over for a moment, instinctively snapping her beak together as she tried to put her thoughts into words. "Caves. I believe that some of the ship may have fallen into the caves."

As if drawn by some kind of intangible force, all of their eyes were simultaneously drawn to the nearest gorge, about a quarter mile east of the section of hull they were currently exploring. Though it was deeply recessed into Argent Peak's base, the jagged mouth of the cave was certainly big enough to fit a largish prison ship, especially one traveling at enormous speed. If one squinted into the entrance and listened carefully, they could see a faint orangish glow lighting up the cavern from the inside, and possibly hear a stray scream echoing from within.

James whistled. "Oooh yeah. There's people down there, all right."

At that moment, Duros's radio crackled to life. "-urity Force Friendship Units 90-106 en route. We're *kstch* just outside of the City Limits, estimated arrival in one hour. Peace Warrior Outpost Delta Five is sending a convoy, estimated arrival in 30 minutes."

"Peace Warriors?" Ginevra gasped.

"If they get here before we leave, we're toast," someone said in a low voice.

"I won't allow it," Duros growled. "We have less than twenty-nine minutes left by now, and that's twenty minutes we can spend saving lives - or at least stabilizing the crew's condition to the best of our ability. Follow me, Resistance. We must hurry."

And so they went, nearly sprinting into the cave mouth. James, ever the resourceful teen, pulled out a tactical flashlight that he had made himself and illuminated the gently-sloping terrain around them.

It was surprisingly warm inside the cave, and vast, slightly moist rock formations - those that hadn't been destroyed by the ship's impact, that is - grew up to meet each other every couple of yards. The Resistance was forced to make a few turns to navigate around some of the remaining spires and growths, but the path was mostly clear thanks in no small part to the ship's trail. As they walked, the cave grew lighter, and it wasn't long before James turned the light off entirely.

This was a mistake, though none of them knew it immediately. Deprived of their main source of light, their eyes took a moment to adjust to the relative dark, which turned out to be just a moment too long. Not even KC's quick-adapting retinas perceived the colossal mechanical form lying not ten feet away - until suddenly the stalagmites themselves shouted, "DON'T FRAGGING MOVE!"

Small lights activated at the base of a nearby formation, illuminating a large metal device that could not in any way be mistaken for something other than a weapon. It was pointed directly at them and making a high-pitched whirring noise, but it wasn't the weapon that startled Duros, or even the sudden movement the thing made, but rather, the very nature of this odd lifeform itself.  
It was apparent that it was injured, as it was keeping one hand firmly clamped around its leg. Two oversized pauldrons with what looked like wheels attached to their midway points hung limply off its shoulders. A bright blue rectangle of light pulsed on its boxy chest and eyes hidden beneath a blue visor blinked and whirred as the giant took in the sight. Duros decided they really weren't eyes - camera lenses, more like. He'd seen creatures like this before, but it had been a long time since he'd last spoken to one.

"What are you? Why are you here?" it hissed in a low, short rasp. The voice had an air to it which reminded Duros of his Basic Training days - that of a drill sergeant which demanded a response.

Fighting the urge to stand up straight and say 'sir' at the end of each sentence, he replied, "We're Nebulans. We're here to help. Are you injured?"

The robot made a facial expression which Duros interpreted to be a scowl. "'Nebulos. Frag. 'Course I'm injured, fleshie. I've had worse, though. There're others in that chamber what need help more'n me. If'n you're truly here to help, you'd go in there." It paused for a second then let out a low chuckling sound. "Good luck providin' assistance there, little guy."

Duros nodded soberly, stashing his stun pistol back in its holster. "We'll do all we can, friend." He turned to address his allies.

"Resistance - we've got twenty-seven minutes now, so we need to get to work. Split into groups of four and tackle this thing as a cohesive unit. If I'm not mistaken, these creatures are Cybertronians, so they'll be rather difficult to get to safety. If we work together, we can-"

"That's enough." It was a curt, clipped interruption that stopped Duros in his verbal tracks. "Be brief of speech and long on action. Don't stand here orating while my friends are dying. Get to work already."

Duros was at a loss for words for a moment but soon realized his error. "My apologies, you're right. Let's go."

* * *

Once the Nebulans had gotten into their groups, they exited the corridor into an enormous cavern that Duros estimated must have plunged miles underground. Through a gaping maw of stalactites, stalagmites, and what even appeared to be cliffs, the Resistance surveyed the scene laid out before them.

The ship itself, slate-colored with blue and red plates of armor among its entire superstructure, had broken into three colossal sections, not including whatever remains had broken off up at the crash's epicenter.

Firstly, there was a blocky section closest to the cavern entrance; which appeared to be the rest of the bridge judging by the broken array of light blue windows nestled among several deep red structures - still more, heavier pieces of armor perhaps, if Duros wasn't mistaken as to the origin of these mechanical lifeforms. At the bottom of the structure was a large tear in the ship's outer plating, located near what could only have been an access port jammed open during the crash.

In the middle of the wreckage, a tall gray tower lay on its side as if it was a toy, thrown to the ground by a careless child. Most of it was half buried in gravel piled about thirty feet high. The top of the tower was a tapered, sleek prism with thin windows running in a direction that would have been horizontal if the tower had been right side up. This was undoubtedly the middle of the ship or close to it, judging by the torn metal at both ends of the section of spacecraft that the tower was situated on. The last portion of the ship was by far the largest, with barred portholes and an enormous gaping hole in the side that almost exactly matched the tear pattern of the cell block outside. An array of cherry-red thrusters at the back of this section were giving off vast amounts of heat even now, causing the air around the emitters to shimmer like a mirage.

The inside of the cavern was covered with robots of all sizes and shapes, all moving with purpose around and inside the smoking hulk of the prison ship. Excellent. That meant that repair and rescue efforts were already underway, which would serve only to make the Resistance's job easier. Even so, everyone in attendance felt it was their duty to assist these strange lifeforms, even if the infamous Peace Warriors were not far behind and closing quickly. The small groups broke away from each other and moved as one to help, Duros's group, who headed for the bridge section, included.

"Tyler, Selvig, take the access hatch! Silas, you're with me!" he shouted as they came within feet of the damaged spaceship. Though several of the robots had initially made exclamations of surprise fly at the teams of organics suddenly coming out of nowhere, they quickly died down to determined commands as the Resistance assured the creatures that they were there to help. Duros's group hadn't come near any of the mechanoids, simply because the section they had chosen was closest to the entrance and just a tad out of the way, skirting around where the robots were most heavily concentrated.

Duros and Silas slipped through the enormous crack in the ship's hull - big enough for both of them to fit through without even having to duck - and entered into what appeared to be the entrance to a panopticon.

The room was more of a large hallway; consisting of plain walls the same color of the ship's superstructure and several heavy-duty doors built into an equal amount of alcoves. Two lines ran down the corridor, one blue and one an angry red. Small fires burned the length of the room, and sections of the floor were pulled up, revealing sparking wires. Only two of the doors remained open, one of them on the far side of the corridor seeming to contain scattered navigational datapads and a single oversized desk.

"Hey! Who's there? I need a little help here!" a voice cried out from the other open room. Silas shot Duros a quick look, and both of them dashed to find the source of the voice.

The speaker was green and black with a giant tan shoulder cannon, pinned underneath a cube of metal that Duros guessed to be a medical cabinet, based off of the white walls of the room bearing similarity to that of a hospital room. The robot showed no obvious signs of distress or, in fact, being injured. As a matter of fact, he only seemed a little irritated at his plight.

"We'll help you out," Silas affirmed.

"Help me? You're a little small to be doing that, don't you think?" replied the alien, trying to shift underneath the cabinet and failing. "Ah . . . never mind. Well, as long as you're here, Try to lift this thing off of me. I'm pretty firmly stuck right now, but I could take it the rest of the way if I just had me some leverage!"

Duros followed Silas and took hold of the cabinet. "Of course, we'll do our best. On three. One-"

"Hold up," the robot said. "Reposition yourself to the side. You'll be able to put more into the lift that way. 'Kay. You're the boss."

"Again, on three," Duros said once he had repositioned himself accordingly. "One, two, three!"

The two men grunted with exertion. The cabinet had to weigh close to a thousand pounds by itself, and the latch threatened to give way at any moment and spill very sharp, jumbo-sized medical instruments on them. It moved a few inches, and the robot took it the rest of the way, grabbing the entire cabinet and placing it on a shelf behind the nearby exam bed. When this was finished he rotated the previously entrapped arm in a tight circle and flexed his surprisingly complex fingers.

"Nice. Gotta hand it to you, kids. You're stronger than I thought you'd be. Name's Hardhead and - whoa there. You all right?"

Lifting the cabinet had taken more out of Duros than he expected. It felt like someone had jammed a red-hot fireplace poker down his spinal column. His muscles screamed as they reminded him that he was not, in fact, the young man he once was and his lungs rattled as they tried to get in some air. Silas moved an inch closer to his friend, unsure of what exactly to do.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just old," the leader of the Resistance spoke through a haze of pain. Even as he said it he started feeling slightly better. He took a slow, steady breath and the pain subsided to an intense throb, finally allowing him to stand up a little straighter. "Are there any other injured people that you know of in this section?"

Hardhead's blue visor darkened to a shade of indigo as he paused for a moment. Silas and Duros could almost literally hear the gears whirring in his head as the robot appeared to access some kind of communications system. "Well, there's. . . no, he's already out . . . Sureshot's out of the ship, but dazed . . . got it, thanks . . . yeah, yeah, Nightbeat, I've got Section One secured. You can leave me alone now."

"I'm afraid not," A very strange blue robot strolled into the room, prompting Duros's mind to forcibly reboot itself. This newcomer - Nightbeat, apparently - had several oddly-shaped growths hanging off of his frame that, when taken together as a whole, made the impression that he was wearing some type of clothing resembling Duros's own trenchcoat. _Surely these things wouldn't be inclined to wear_ coats, _right?_ he thought, attempting to rationalize the image that was still gracing his field of vision. _That's just an absolutely ridiculous idea._

As Nightbeat entered, he slipped his hand back into the metal . . . pocket of the "trenchcoat." At this point, both Duros and Silas simply accepted the oddity as one of the bemusing wonders of the universe and elected to ignore it from there on out.

"Hardhead. We need to talk," he said.

The first mech's visor returned to its light blue glow. "Of course we do," he grunted irritably, a complete turnaround from the personality he'd already demonstrated to the two Nebulans. "I told you already, that dent on Level 3 has nothing to do with me. It was probably-"

"I don't care about that." Nightbeat cut him off, his tone somehow icy and burning with irritation at the same time. "I've conducted a scan of the area surrounding this part of the Fortress, and it's not stable. We're talking a full-scale collapse if something isn't done soon. Only the ship's stabilizers are keeping this part up, and they're bordering on catastrophic failure." He regarded Duros and Silas with brief . . . distant amusement, maybe, and continued. "Sirs. We appreciate your help and thank you all, but I'd rather not deal with Nebulans or their government tonight. I'll have to ask you to first evacuate the ship, and then this entire area. For your own safety, of course. Hardhead, please escort the gentlemen outside and ensure that they are removed from the premises."

Hardhead bristled visibly, sections of armor rising off of his body and small lights on his forehead flaring purple as he stepped towards the much smaller Nightbeat. "Now you listen to me, fuzzbox," he growled, pushing into Nightbeat's personal space, "you're not my CO and I'm not sure you ever will be, so why don't you stop trying to give me orders right here and now? I make my own rules, unlike your protégés, so back off, will ya?"

If Nightbeat was bothered, he didn't show it and stood his ground. Staring calmly up at the larger green mechanoid, he replied, "Yes, of course, my apologies. I suppose that in the heat of things, we lose sight of the chain of command and attempt to assume others' roles. Very well. Once more, Hardhead, I apologize for the redundant request and realize that you didn't need the extra bidding to get it done. Please, don't let me stop you from accomplishing your endeavor."

Hardhead was visibly nonplussed. "Uh . . . all right. Nebulans, you'll have to come with-"

Just then, a mildly distorted voice blared over the intercom. "FORTRESS . . . ONLINE. INTERNAL *err* CONFLAGRATION DETECTED. HEAVY DAMAGE DETECTED. DEPLOYING FIRE RETARDANT SYSTEM."

A strange white foam shot out of tiny ports in the corridor walls, covering the small fires and nearly everything else, including Nightbeat. Some of it landed on the two Nebulans.

It was stickier and thicker than Duros expected, almost like the "glue guns" he had carried during the early years of the Institute before they were confiscated and banned. It gave him an itching sensation rapidly progressing to a painful burning. He quickly brushed it off.

"Holy Zetca, what is that stuff?" Silas asked to no one in particular as he brushed himself off as well.

"Fire-retardant foam, made of petroleum distillates, a few bases, harmless chemicals, et cetera et cetera. It's only a mild irritant to carbon-based lifeforms." He shook the foam out of his coat. "Follow Hardhead out of the _Fortress_ , you two, then take your friends and kindly forget you saw anything here. Our business here is . . . well, let's just say it won't be sanctioned by your President if something unexpected comes up. Hardhead, I'll leave you be. You can take it from here if you like."

The ship's operating system spoke again, slowing down minutely as it continued its report. "HEAVY DAMAGE DETECT *err* DETECTED. CRITICAL INJURIES SUSTAINED. ENTERING TEMPORARY STASIS LOCK IN EIGHTY CLICKS . . ."

Nightbeat sighed. "Dear me. If _Fortress_ enters stasis lock, this entire section will collapse into itself. The living quarters, the armory, the life support systems, even, are all contained here. We'll be without a field base if something isn't done soon. Hardhead, carry on, if you would, but be quick about it. I'm going to secure the area outside and see if I can't find out where Cog got off to. Hate to sound cliché, but the fate of this planet may rest on our next few actions."

"Roger, High Emperor," Hardhead jabbed. He waited until Nightbeat had left and dropped his voice to a whisper, putting on an exaggerated "old man" voice. "Young upstart's two ranks higher'n me and thinks he's something special. Do you feel reasonably secure here, not counting a possible complete collapse of the entire area followed by our painful deaths?"

"Not exactly," Duros admitted after a brief pause. "But my job's got everything to do with not feeling safe. I think I can handle it."

Silas shrugged. "Well, when you put it that way, I'm game, I suppose."

Hardhead brightened. "Great! Then let's go! If the _Fortress_ collapses, I'll protect you." He rapped his head with his knuckles. "This ain't the only thing that's 'specially reinforced for protection against severe blunt force trauma.'"

With that, he set off at a casual pace, meaning Duros and Silas had to sprint to keep up. They were nearing the caged ladder in the back of the corridor when a loud banging issued from one of the closed blast doors.

"THEY'RE ALL O'ER ME! GET BACK, YEH VILE BEASTIES! YOU'LL NOT TAKE ME T'YER MASTER AS LONG AS THERE'S LIFE IN ME SPARK!"

"What in the Pit is happening now?" Nightbeat materialized out of nowhere, sounding quite irritated but still remaining calm.

"Scrap, not again! I thought Stripmine said he was done with these!"

"Who's done with what?" Silas shouted over the din.

Ignoring the question, the blue-and-yellow mech approached the door. "Cell Block B, open. Verification: Nightbeat."

"ERROR. DOOR JAMMED."

Nightbeat visibly bit back a curse. "Nuts and bolts. Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way. We've got to force this hunk of junk open."

"Now that's what I like to hear!" Hardhead shouted, cracking his knuckles. "Stand back!"

He punched the center of the door with enough force to dent the metal, then slipped his hands inside the crack which resulted. Nightbeat took one hand out of his coat pocket and did the same. Together, they strained to open it as sparks fell from the ceiling and alarms blared.

"FORCED ENTRY DETECTED IN CELL BLOCK B. DEPLOYING COUNTERMEASURE LOCKS. ALL AVAILABLE PERSONNEL REPORT TO CONTAINMENT AREA."

A loud, percussive noise issued from the door as three thick deadbolts slid into place, halting the two bots' progress.

"SLAG! Fraggit, _Fortress_!" Hardhead yelled, cursing the ship between pulls.

"If we let go, the locks will deploy further, thus - erng - thus keeping Quickmix locked inside. Assuming I'm not mistaken, the fallout will be detrimental to his continued mental health," Nightbeat managed to grunt.

Duros glanced at the locks. Already they were failing under the robot's combined strength, but he doubted the Cybertronians would be able to hold on much longer. It looked like they just needed an extra push to disengage. What was more, the doors were already open enough for him to possibly put his arm through.

"Avoy! I can't grab hold of anything! Any ideas?" Silas asked urgently, inspecting the door himself. The metal surrounding the gap was sharp and jagged from the impact Hardhead had given, making it impossible for the farm boy to gain any purchase without getting cut. From here, it seemed that several damaged portions would be possibly enough to shred a certain Nebulan's arm to bloody ribbons - but the deadbolts were right there, only hanging on by a hair.

"NIGHTBEAT! Use your other servo!" Hardhead snapped, jarring Duros out of his analysis. Indeed, the mech in question was keeping his left hand jammed firmly in the pocket of his strange trenchcoat, and-  
Trenchcoat.

The solution hit Duros like a train. "Yeah, Silas, I've got one," he affirmed as he removed his own coat, wrapping it firmly around his arm several layers deep. As Nightbeat retorted something about an old war wound, the Nebulan charged up to the door and stuck his arm through. Sparks showered off the sturdy garment, but loud ripping noises as his favorite coat brushed against the door's edges proved that it wouldn't last long.

"Can't hold on . . . much longer . . ."

With a final defiant yell, Duros thrust his arm at the bolts, roughly jostling them loose. A centimeter to go - a millimeter - he could feel the deadbolts slipping . . .

The door flew open with a mighty crash, ripping the rest of the coat to pieces and admitting the largest mechanical lifeform Duros had ever seen into the corridor, massive arms flailing wildly. It was mostly red and white, with yellow accents and trace amounts of green. Next to the giant, Hardhead and Nightbeat looked no bigger than the Nebulans themselves appeared next to them. Its head scraped the ceiling with black antennae longer than Duros's body. It was completely covered in the fire-foam and trying desperately to brush it off - but the most striking thing about this one was that its right arm terminated in a mixing barrel large enough to fit both Nightbeat and Hardhead inside with room to spare. He knew this because the barrel was feverishly spinning about, opening and closing lengthwise like some carnivorous plant-based creature as it did so. In the tiny corridor, the robot came close to smashing Silas, Duros, and even Nightbeat against the walls several times. Luckily, Hardhead managed to take hold of the giant's arm and twist it behind its bulk, gently lowering it down to the ground. Nightbeat came around its colossal back, roughly brushing the foam off, which seemed to calm the larger mech down somewhat, and addressed it directly.

"Quickmix, calm down! You're safe, you're safe, you're with friends. There aren't any Terrorcons, Mecannibals, Insecticons, or arachnoids around for megamiles. What do you remember? Can you recall my name or anything else about your current state?"

"Ach . . ." The robot's visor clarified from a foggy sapphire to a sharper cobalt. He spoke like he was shot up with a sedative, slurring his words through his entire dialog. This combined with his strong accent made it quite difficult for Duros to understand him, but he prevailed. "You are naet Siren, I know tha' much . . . it's on the tip o' me glossa. . . I want to say Blurr, but I know that aein't right, an' you're deffo not a lass, so it cain't be Joyride neither . . . Bingo!" He jerked his head upward, conveying an expression of delight even though his face was covered by what appeared to be a jumbo-sized breathing mask. "You're Nightbeat, are ye not?"

"Good. Your designation database is apparently functioning. Do you remember everything else? Perhaps what happened when we recruited you? The Battle For Cybertron? Unicron? Any of this ringing a bell?"

Quickmix paused for a moment. A wave of dread seemed to settle upon him like a cloud of thick, choking smog. "Och hen. Thes ain't good. . ."  
The blue mech muttered something under his breath. Duros thought he caught a disappointed "slag . . ."

"Ah cain't remember half o' that, boss. 'Tis sae slaggin' foggy . . ." Little pinpricks of light shimmered at the edges of his visor. "Ah'm sorry."  
Nightbeat's face fell even further, if that was possible. "That's fine. Come with me. Hardhead, release him."

"Gladly." The green mech released his hold on the giant, dusting off his hands as the larger mech rose to his massive feet.

"Hardhead, I'm going to get Quickmix here some fresh air and see if I can track down Cog. I'd appreciate it if you'd go to the bridge and evacuate anyone who might still be up there while he reactivates the _Fortress._ "

"OOH! What about the organics, boss? Can they come, too? I promise I'll keep real good care of 'em!" Hardhead pushed far into Nightbeat's personal space again, looking up at him with pleading eyes and causing the latter mechanoid to flinch backward. Duros couldn't help but chuckle. Even if Hardhead was obviously trying to force the higher-ranking officer to cater to his desires, the green mech's enthusiasm reminded Duros of Galen learning he was getting a baby sister. . .  
No. He couldn't dwell on that. Those memories brought only pain, so he shoved them to the back of his mind.

"You know, Nebulans are pretty tough for their size, I hear. They could help me out as long as they're careful."

"Sirs, are you quite sure you'll be fine with staying in the ship for however long the evacuation takes?" the blue mech asked, trying to nonchalantly push the other away. "We won't be held responsible for any injuries you may incur as you navigate the _Fortress."_

Silas looked doubtful, but Duros immediately replied, "Yes, I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about me."

"Actually, I'd really rather leave. It's getting late, and the Peace Warriors will be here any moment," the younger Nebulan said.

Mentally, Duros slapped himself. He'd gotten so caught up in the action that he'd forgotten entirely about the approaching Peace Warrior convoy. By his estimate, they had about nineteen minutes left in total, with only ten more minutes to spend in the ship. "Silas is correct. I'll still go to the bridge, just to help with the evacuation, but we _do_ need to finish up here."

"In that case, very well," Nightbeat huffed resignedly. "But be quick about it, Hardhead. The Nebulan Peace Warriors are some of the most violent law enforcement personnel I've ever had the displeasure to deal with, and these Nebulans must get home as soon as possible."

"YES!" Hardhead shouted. "Thank you so much, sir! You are the greatest-"

"Soldier," Nightbeat interjected, cutting Hardhead off with a single quiet yet forceful word. "Time is absolutely critical at this point. We must hurry."

The faux excitement leached itself entirely from Hardhead, leaving only staunch professionalism in its place. "Yes, _sir_."

They parted ways promptly, Hardhead approaching Duros again and Nightbeat leading Quickmix and Silas outside with a quick "With me, Mr. Silas." Duros nodded a good-bye to his friend and turned to Hardhead as the steadily more confused voice of Quickmix faded into the distance.

Hardhead broke the brief silence. "Well, enough about that. You probably can't climb the ladder all the way up, so hop on my hand. Be quick about it."

He lowered his hand towards Duros, its palm barely big enough for him to stand on. Up close it was a masterpiece of delicate gears, panels, and hinges. A vague thought came to Duros that Flint Lockheed, one of the Resistance's most tech-savvy individuals, would probably like to see the Cybertronians and exactly how they went about life. But then again, Flint was working the night shift at the precinct with Pierce McHeir, and thus had not been able to attend the fateful meeting that night. Not wasting another second, Duros quickly stepped on to Hardhead's hand and braced himself for motion. Hardhead's hand lifted gently upwards and deposited the Nebulan onto his shoulder, where a section of his shoulder cannon folded out to form a reasonable seat. Once Duros had gotten comfortable, the Cybertronian started towards the ladder at the back of the room.

Duros managed to catch a glimpse of the room behind the chain links as Hardhead scaled the ladder. It seemed to be an enormous prison cell, about four cell blocks high and lined with catwalks and observation points. The blocks stretched upward to the ceiling before disappearing into a haze of red lights. Below was the small structure consisting of the four rooms that they had just exited, crowned with a small watchtower. Most of the cells on the lower floors were open, with large rectangular crates strewn about the prison's floor space. Hardhead began to climb faster, leaping two rungs at a time. The Nebulan held tighter to his seat, growing painfully aware of the massive height they had now reached and the seconds ticking inexorably away.

A question nagged at his conscience, one that would not go away. He cleared his throat and let it out, to take his mind off of the multitude of things that he was worried about at the moment.

"Say, Hardhead. About that big one-"

"Quickmix."

"Right, Quickmix. After that . . . er, episode, he told Nightbeat about not being able to remember certain things about his past. It didn't seem like amnesia or anything of the sort."

"You're right, it's not."

"If you don't mind me asking, was it brought on by anything?"

"Yep. Y'see, Quickmix was a big - no pun intended - name on his home planet of Gigantion. They're construction aficionados over there, an' he built all sorts of stuff. But what he was really known for, especially after our war ended - " he passed by two enormous access hatches, one roughly ripped off of its hinges by the crash, "- was chemicals. Acids, bases, solvents, mortars, Quickmix was your 'bot. When we got to Gigantion, _they_ followed us. We had no choice but to draft some of the locals for the war effort, and Quickmix turned his optics to items of a more offensive nature. His napalm in particular - man, that's good stuff. Problem is, over time, the fumes started gettin' to his processor. Every now and then he has hallucinations like what you just saw. After these things, he forgets certain parts of his whole life. It's a real tragic thing for all of us workin' around the Iacon Spaceport area, we've all heard about the Chemist at one point or another. Mech won't stop makin' chemicals, though. Vorn after vorn he slips away from his hab-suite an' his buddy Stripmine and gets to work in the Spaceport's lab. Says he wants to keep the armory stocked, no matter the cost. Apparently, he doesn't think the war'll stay gone for long."

Another floor went by before Duros answered. "That's terrible. Is there anything that can be done to keep him away?"

Hardhead took a bit of offense to that. "Well, us Autobots do everything we can short of locking him in the brig to stop him, but he just keeps at it! Fragged-up idjit doesn't know what's good for him and what ain't."

Duros frowned. "Sounds to me like he needs someone more to look after him than just one person - Stripmine, did you say? Might be worthwhile to see if some other people would be willing and dedicated to take care of him."

"Yeah, maybe. You try keeping that mech away from the lab. 'S not as easy as it sounds, and judgin' on the state of the _Fortress_ , it'll be decacycles before he can get the treatment he needs."

More silence. Hardhead arrived at a closed carbon-steel hatch. The door had about five different high-tech locks on it, including a heavy deadbolt not unlike the ones that had attempted to keep the prison doors shut down below. A large red sigil in the shape of a robot's face was centered on the hatch.

"I can't let you see the combinations, buddy," Hardhead said curtly in the same tone he had used when talking to Nightbeat. Duros felt bad, having obviously insulted the robot to some extent. Another section of Hardhead's cannon unfolded to form a kind of blast shield which completely obscured what he was doing. Another, much chillier, silence fell excepting the beeping of the locks.  
"Look, Hardhead. I'm sorry. I understand that he's your friend, and it was rude of me to try to presume like that. I was just trying to suggest a fix to the problem at hand-"

"I know what you were trying to do." Hardhead's voice was low. "Don't even know the guy too well, but we're all friends around here - circumstances demand it - and his condition affects us just as much as they do him, even though I just met the guy, not a decacycle ago, and most of us haven't even known him for a full three vorns. I'm sorry I gave you the cold shoulder coupling. Thanks for your input . . ."

"Duros," the Nebulan supplied. "Avoy Duros."

"I think I'll just call you by your last name if that's all right with you."

Duros shrugged. "Everyone does anyway. I'm fine with it."

The zeal slipped back bit by bit into Hardhead's voice. "Good. In that case, Duros. . ." He grinned beneath his faceplate, though no one knew but him. "Let's go wake the baby."

* * *

The bridge was a large, dark room. Two weak emergency lights flashed in the entryway, periodically illuminating the area with reddish-orange light. Twenty-four workstations were scattered around, organized into tiers of six, some glowing with light and some not. These all faced a single station in the front, a long line of terminals and towers that were glowing a periodically fading blue. A giant panel of windows overlooked the inside of the cave, where robots were dotting the landscape and speaking with the other members of the Resistance. _Even the largest mechanoids look like ants from here_ , Duros thought. He could just make out Quickmix's hulking form and a few tiny specks around him that were possibly Silas and Halle Weiss, if he wasn't mistaken.

At the main controls, a handsome red and gold mech dashed from computer bank to computer bank, tapping furiously on each terminal and cursing at random intervals.

"Almost got it - _FortMax_ , respond! Cerebros, Cog, respond! Someone give me an update, slaggit!"

Hardhead rushed down the tiers, Duros clinging to his cannon to avoid being thrown out of the seat. "Boss, we've got to boot, scoot, and boogie! This entire section's gonna come down next cycle! "

The red mech ignored him. "I'm almost there, Hardhead! I just need to reboot _FortMax_ , and everything'll be fine! I can do this . . . Pit, I _know_ I can do this . . ."

Hardhead clamped a hand on the other mechanoid's shoulder, forcing the latter to stop in his tracks. His visor darkened a few shades again as he spoke in a quiet tone - again, completely at odds with what he had demonstrated since Duros had met him. "Boss, if you don't get out of here, you'll die. Then we'll be without a base, a ship, _and_ a _**leader**_. Come with me. We can do without the ship if we have to, but we can't go without you . . . _Prime_."

A note of apprehension crept into Red's voice, "No, no, I need to save him - I need to save you all. We need to get home."  
Hardhead looked off to the side, his gaze falling on one of the nearby data towers. Its casing was blackened and its damaged internals were exposed, but a single blue light at the bottom of the bank still stayed on, albeit fading quickly. "You can't always expect yourself to save everyone, Rodimus."

All was silent for a moment, but suddenly, the green mech seemed to notice something about the terminal that he hadn't before and visibly brightened up. "Then again . . . sometimes you CAN save them! Rodimus, you've been sweating the small stuff ever since we landed here, but you didn't go all the way with it. What _**I**_ think ol' Maxie here needs is just a little bit of _percussive maintenance!"_  
Without warning, he slammed his fist down on the terminal's casing, nearly sending Duros flying off the mount. Rodimus surged forward, shouting a quick "NO!", but Hardhead entirely ignored him.

A loud noise echoed throughout the bridge, so deep Duros could feel it vibrating in his teeth. The emergency lights clicked off while bright overheads washed the room in almost-harsh white light even as the ship settled itself in the gravel of the cave, right-side up and completely stable. Terminals all about the room flashed on, their blue glows pulsing rhythmically. The AI's voice from the medbay came on again, stronger this time, and boomed, "FORTRESS MAXIMUS - **ONLINE**. EQUILIBRIUM RESTORED. RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS."  
"Well, guess it worked, more or less," Rodimus huffed, still steamed despite the great results of Hardhead's stubbornness.

"What can I say, boss? It's either my way or no way," the mech in question replied snidely, with a grin on his face so wide Duros could hear it in every word he spoke.

* * *

Although the ship was unmistakably in pieces, the overall damage to its operating system and life-support capabilities turned out to be quite a bit less than what was expected.

During the first stage of the A.I.'s diagnosis, two hidden panels opened up in different locations of the bridge, revealing two similarly-built mechanoids, one with two enormous red spires shooting up from his shoulders and the other with a clear chest filled with glowing wires and cables, who introduced themselves as Cog and Cerebros, respectively.

Cerebros was charged with repairing and rewriting the ship's datafiles, a task he immediately set to work on as Cog began to further stabilize the ship. Rodimus Prime - the red-and-gold mech, of course, who seemed to hold a high rank among the Cybertronians - Hardhead, and Duros were commanded to leave the ship, though a scan executed by the computer confirmed this section was in no danger of collapsing and there were no personnel left in the entire ship. Despite this, it was judged that it would be wise for the three in the bridge to leave so repairs could commence.

Duros checked his grandfather's watch again, surprised to find that the Resistance had a tight, but doable, window of eight minutes in which to leave the _Fortress_ 's crash site.

"Hardhead, I'm afraid that my group and I need to leave immediately. What would be the fastest way to get back to ground level from here?" he asked, turning to face the mechanoid.

By now, the Cybertronian had reached the long ladder that had led the two to the bridge. "Fastest way down's vis-á-vis this ladder. It'll take too long to climb the whole way, but . . ." Underneath his facemask, Hardhead's lip plates ticked up in a smirk. "Well, I got an idea, now that you bring it up. Hold on as tight as you can."

"All right. What are you going to-" was all Duros could get out before his Cybertronian mount leapt up and around the mouth of the ladder, firmly clamping both hands onto each rail and letting gravity do the rest of the job. Had the Nebulan been paying attention to anything but putting a death grip onto the armrests of Hardhead's seat and trying not to fly off into the chain-link cage just feet away from him, he would have seen great clouds of sparks blazing to life where Hardhead's hand met the ladder's metal. As it were, when they finally hit the ground floor with an almighty jolt, he hardly loosened his grip.

"Fun, ain't it?" Hardhead chirped lightly, dusting off his hands. "Only took a handful of astroseconds. Now run, Avoy Duros, and meet with your friends before the Secret Police or whatever you Nebulans have arrives."

"Thank you," the still-dazed Nebulan mumbled as he was let down to the ground. Before either person could leave, however, Rodimus Prime reached the ground floor as well by the same method that Hardhead had used.

"Hardhead. Would you mind if I pulled the organic aside for a breem?" he said. "I've just got one last thing to ask him before he leaves."

"Not my place, boss. It looks like I've got some work to do outside anyways," the green mech replied. "Duros, thanks for getting me out from under that cabinet. It was nice to work with you."

Rodimus nodded, as did the Nebulan in question. "I appreciate it, Hardhead. As long as you're out, tell the others that we'll be along in a few klicks."

Returning the nod, Hardhead stepped outside. The red mech waited until he was out of earshot, then took a knee by Duros's side.  
"Let's get down to business. You helped us quite a bit today, and for that I'm grateful." Rodimus said quietly. "But one of my soldiers - Pointblank - told me that you said you were from some kind of . . . resistance, was it? Is that true?"

Duros pursed his lips. "Yes. We were actually just having one of our biweekly meetings when your ship crashed."

"That's unfortunate," Rodimus Prime said. "Nebulans are already under the thumb of one of the worst dictatorships in the Local Sector . . . If the Zarak Institute finds you out here in the middle of the night, that's bad enough, but if they've got files on you guys being members of a GOI, you're worse than dead." It really was interesting how the mech's face moved as he spoke, moving just fluidly enough to avoid the uncanny valley. Rodimus's eyes whirred like the lenses of a camera as he focused on Duros, and he got the feeling that his complete attention was on him.

"Duros, I'm going to let you in on a secret - and be as quick as I can about it," he said, moving closer. "You probably know about us Cybertronians - our war, our factionalism, and certain, shall we say, _events_ that have come to light recently around the galaxy regarding our race."

The Resistance leader shifted position slightly, reports of bloody battles, ancient eldritch beasts wreaking havoc on the universe, and colossal property damage on distant worlds flowing through his mind. "Yes, I'm familiar with Cybertronians and their history. Any NSF officer worth his salt knows about your Great War."

"Good. Well, first off, I want to assure you that we are Autobots. We're the good guys - although, given what's been going on, there's a lot of 'good guys' on both sides - Anyways. If you're well-versed on our culture, then you know that the War's ended recently, yes?" the mechanoid returned. Duros responded in the negative - galactic updates from the Torchlight and the Department of Knowledge became less and less reliable by the day.

"A pity. Avoy, I hate to tell you, but what I'm about to say is crucially important to you and your friends - and everyone on this planet's - continued survival. You are the only person on this planet that I feel I can tell you about this, but it's vital that you spread the word, as discreetly as you can, of course. Do you understand?"

The Nebulan nodded, ensured that the Resistance still had time to comfortably leave, and listened.

"You see, to our species, peace is an alien concept. Our war criminals and terrorists are still brutally rocking Cybertron and her colonies, heedless of the War's end, as we speak. Not seven vorns ago - er, that would be about seven and a half of your Nebulan hours, I suppose - there was a horrible attack on one of Cybertron's most important spaceports. We barely escaped in this very craft, but a Decepticon battle cruiser followed us, shooting us down over your upper atmosphere." He gave Duros a moment to digest that and continued. "We came down in flames, but not before we were able to take them down with us. We're online and functional, but there's a battleship somewhere else in this area, probably nearby, filled with a number of very angry Rebels built just like us and led by a psychotic warlord, and they won't be happy whenever they reactivate, let me tell you."

Duros was struck dumb. "By Zetca in Indalánd . . . what are we supposed to do? We've got families, friends that could be in harm's way! We need to tell everyone - immediately!"

Rodimus set his jaw, camera-eyes utterly focused, determined for what would come next. "For starters, _you_ don't try to engage the Decepticons in any way if you see them, and for your own safety, don't call the Peace Warriors either; however, I doubt I need to tell you that. We'll do our part and send out search parties to find our enemies as soon as we possibly can, but you must ensure that the public is knowledgeable about the Decepticon threat."

"I'm Commissioner of the NSF, that shouldn't be too much of a problem. Assuming Dakota Scott's feeling generous, I can probably schedule a press release for tomorrow," Duros interjected grimly. "What can we - the Resistance - do to help you guys out, though?"

"If I were you," Rodimus Prime began, "I'd get back to your home as quick as you can, draw the blinds, and forget you saw us. Same goes for your friends. Try to pretend this whole encounter right here was a bad dream or a product of an overactive imagination, but make sure you get the word out that Nebulos just became a lot less safe, copy?"

Duros stiffened. "Yes, sir. Although, it hasn't really _been_ safe ever since Zarak came into power."

Now, it was Rodimus's turn to be at a loss for words. In a dark tone, he answered, "I - I suppose you're right. Slag . . . how are we going to do this with the Institute hanging over the whole planet . . ." He tried to rekindle his previous boyish lightness and failed, seemingly preoccupied with the newly realized ramifications of the task ahead of him. "Well, we should get going. We've dallied enough as it is." He stood up with unexpected grace for a giant robot and started toward the exit, saying something about beginning to sound like Nightbeat. Duros followed in his footsteps, stewing in the knowledge of this new threat, even greater than the Zarak Institute or the closest Peace Warrior outposts. Troubled, the Nebulan began to seriously consider his options.

* * *

As he had expected, the cavern outside was swarming with Autobots. Mechanoids of all sizes and shapes even more diverse than he had noticed on his way in milled about the gravel-covered ground, some moving off towards the broken portions of the ship to begin repairs. The members of the Resistance that had come with him had gathered in a loose circle in the center of the cavern, all of them ready to take flight at the drop of a hat. Some of them were conversing excitedly, such as young Halle Weiss and James Gort, who were talking to each other at a rapid-fire pace, both teens' eyes alight with joy. Others, like Graeme Quixote, were struck speechless, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. Some even seemed bored. Brick Rifleman seemed wholly uninterested in the amazing events unfolding around him and was instead closely examining his laced fingers.

"Hey, Duros! Isn't this awesome? Look at this! Look at - look at _them!"_ Tyler Solomon exclaimed as he and Selvig approached the Resistance leader. Everyone else closed ranks somewhat around the three men, bombarding Duros with tales of their own exploits during the rescue attempts. Strangely enough, it appeared that most of the comparatively diminutive Nebulans had actually banded together over the night and managed to provide a great deal of assistance to the Cybertronians, much to Duros's surprise.

After about half a minute, the exhilarated stories slowed to a satisfied halt as the Resistance's overexcitement died down somewhat.

"Forgive me for saying so, but shouldn't we get the Darkh outta here?" Michael Fulgure said flippantly in his usual fashion. "I'm just utterly blown away by all of this, but the absolutely exquisite punishments that the Peace Warriors'll give us is kinda harshing my mellow."

The Resistance fell silent. Echoes of "Right" and "About that" bounced around their ranks. Thankfully, as they found out after a watch-check, there were still four minutes left to pull off a decent retreat.

"Well, ain't no use in waiting around for 'em to get here," Ginevra Bough drawled, smartly turning on the spot and prompting her fiancé Cletus to hold his hand out to her.

"Shall we abscond then, milady?" he rumbled, eliciting a soft laugh from Ginevra. As the two lovebirds left, holding hands like an old married couple, the remainder of the Resistance broke away and began heading back up the cavern's gravelly slope. KC flew overhead, managing to catch an efficient thermal updraft even inside the cave.

Duros himself started to leave, but as he walked, he overheard someone nearby whisper his name. To this, he reacted as anyone else would upon hearing his or her name and stiffened up, searching left and right for the search of the voice, which turned out to be just a few yards to his right, by a small portion of the ship's damaged hull. Rodimus Prime and a light blue mech with white wings, holding what looked like a briefcase of all things, were standing by it, having a hushed conversation. Duros caught a snippet of the discussion:

". . . a chance to test my theory, Rodimus! Cerebros showed me the footage of him and Hardhead, and it's a match made in heaven!" the winged mech said, gesticulating freely as he spoke. His optic-eyes were a strange shade of yellow compared to the other Autobots' light blue, yet this mech's eyes were much more expressive than the others', Duros thought to himself.

"Absolutely not, Brainstorm. We need to direct our efforts towards fixing _Fortress_ and establishing a perimeter around the crash site, finding the Rebels before they hurt anyone, and IMMEDIATELY getting off this planet. We're not here to subject innocent civilians to an experiment that just _might_ work and _force_ them to participate in our war."

"What experiment?" Duros asked just loudly enough to halt the conversation. Maybe he was pushing his luck, but the mentions of this experiment - especially the fact that it seemed to involve Nebulans, piqued his interest. Rodimus bristled, plates of armor raising and settling tightly on his frame. "It's classified," he said in a stone-cold voice that seemed to hit Duros with tangible force.

"On the contrary, sir," the other mech - Brainstorm, was it? - said energetically, "my ideas are free domain to anyone who's proven themselves an ally to the Autobots until they're put in the development stage. I don't see any reason why the Nebulan can't hear a fantastical plan for a process that just _might_ work, as you said. Besides," his deeply set eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch as he held the briefcase tighter to his chest, "they might help us round up the Rebels if all goes well. Assuming, of course, that they're all right with joining up for a trial run."

Rodimus looked astounded. "Brainstorm, you're talking about brain surgery here! Binary bonding, even! Which are both - obviously - _VERY_ complicated processes, and we don't even know if these organics would agree to it! That's not even taking into account the danger they'd be in every day until we're done here! I forbid it!"

"I might consent," Duros said, an idea slowly creeping up on him. Rodimus's eyes widened. "If this is what I think it is, I'll be more than happy to take up arms for my planet and her people. Besides, one of our members is the best brain surgeon in the entire Local Sector. Maybe he'd be willing to help with the binary-bonding thing, just for an operation on me. We'll see how it goes."

"See, Roddy? We now have a willing test subject - er, I mean _volunteer,_ of course - and the means to facilitate the process. Y'know, we're going to need all of the help we can get to round up the Decepticons, and his service in our ranks could be just for the duration of the time we're stuck here. What d'ya say?" Brainstorm studied his leader closely.

Rodimus Prime appeared stuck for a moment, his gaze flitting to and from Duros. Finally, he let out a sigh, causing vents on his midsection to flare briefly. "We'll have to discuss this later. If you can make it back here in one joor - er, week - from now, I'll inform you of the extent of this decision you seem to insist on making. Perhaps then you'll change your mind."

Just then, however, the radio on Duros's belt came to life with a report that caused his heart to take a not-very-graceful swan dive into the pit of his stomach. It was loud enough to cause the Resistance to turn back in his direction even halfway to the cavern's exit, and caused the Autobots to jump into action.

"This is SWAT unit 71," the cold, impassionate voice on the radio said. "We took the Neoavún shortcut and are just pulling into the old Argent Peak Planetary Park. Recommend all other units follow suit. Chopper and Enforcercraft inbound."

"Copy that, Unit 71," a different voice growled. Unfortunately, Duros recognized this one - none other than Dakota Scott himself, head of Nebulos's Secret Police, captain of the NSF SWAT team, and Duros's boss. "we're right behind you. Clear a landing site for our arrival when you get there. These Cybertronians are gonna regret ever coming here."

An orange mech with large black wheels mounted on his shoulders came out of the crowd. "Not good at all. Retaliator, take Mr. Duros and deposit him and his friends at the cave mouth. Landfill, Quickmix, Stripmine, come with me. We're going to block off the egress as soon as the last Nebulan leaves the cavern! Rodimus, if you don't mind me giving the order?"

The Autobot leader raised a hand. "Go ahead, Scoop. I'll send backup once you get there!"

"Very well," the orange mech said with a commanding air. "Autobots . . . ROLL OUT!"

Duros had heard fantastical tales of the mechanical ingenuity of Cybertronian life forms, but nothing quite compared to the thrill of seeing several of them transforming at the same time. Their forms shifted and changed in breathtaking and entirely unique ways, plates of armor and limbs sliding about and clipping neatly into other parts that materialized themselves as they were needed. To the Nebulan's surprise, some of the mechanoids retained mostly humanoid shapes as they transformed right up until they dropped onto four wheels and suddenly had turned into vehicles.

Despite himself, despite the pressure that he was feeling at the time, and despite his idea born from the conversation with Rodimus Prime and Brainstorm occupying a very persistent corner of his mind, Duros had time to think _Awesome!_

The mech that Scoop had designated as Retaliator, now in the form of a heavily armored black truck bearing the letters SWAT on the side pulled up alongside the Nebulan. "Get on, sir! I'll take you to safety!"

 _One is never safe when the NSF is coming,_ Duros thought bitterly as he climbed onto the Autobot's side. He wasn't by an means a fan of the force's reputation, but until recently considered it out of his hands to reform the organization.

Retaliator's wheels spun in the loose gravel until they finally bit, sending the Autobot flying up the nearby slope. The rest of the Resistance was already most of the way up, as they'd started to run right after the radio had finished its foreboding broadcast.

The air noticeably changed as Retaliator neared the cavern mouth, going from a warm, smoke-filled miasma to the cool, but not uncomfortable, breeze of a typical Nebulan summer night. Quickmix and a tan dump truck - Duros guessed it was Landfill - gained on the Autobot Duros was currently riding, and for a moment he almost forgot his troubles, simply enjoying the thrill of the events happening around him.

The key word, however, was _almost._ Retaliator rolled to a stop, allowing Duros to neatly step off. He'd done that tens, perhaps hundreds of times before, but this time the action came slower and sent a brief wave of pain crawling up his leg. Not to be dissuaded, Duros kept moving, exiting entirely into the vast canyon that made up this part of Argent Peak. The night had crept on while they were down in the cavern, enough to leave the moon high above the mountains and the stars twinkling brightly in the night sky, undaunted by the dusty tan rings of Nebulos arcing far into space and the smoke that was filling the air. If you were really looking for it, you could see some of the larger ships high above, docked in the spaceport and awaiting clearance to enter the planet or go on to distant places elsewhere in the galaxy, much like the _Fortress Maximus_ itself had been doing before it was shot down.

Duros turned, along with several of his friends, to thank the Autobots, but the mechs were already in motion, superior officers barking out orders and the larger-built personnel following them. The sounds of rock splitting and boulders rolling as they attempted to blockade the cavern mouth drowned out any verbal communication that the Nebulans could make with the Cybertronians.

"Everyone out of the way!" a voice cried from within as a light blue spacecraft approached the entrance, transforming in midair to Brainstorm, who was carrying a large device that resembled some kind of arachnid with a long metallic spike on its underside. As he fell, he jammed the device into the ground and pressed a few buttons on its casing. An enormous pulse shot out from it, causing the Resistance to stumble back even as a vast rock wall shimmered into place, coming into existence as if it had always been there.

"A hard-light hologram? Holy crap, that's amazing!" Halle exclaimed.

"We don't have time to appreciate it, Weiss, we have to go NOW!" Duros barked, dashing for the treeline. Everyone else followed suit, but just as the blaze of their vehicles' headlights came through the pines, just when they all thought they were home free, Selvig ran smack-dab into a broad, chitin-glazed chest covered with a bulletproof vest.

"CEASE AND DESIST, CRIMINAL SCUM! GET ON THE GROUND! DOWN ON THE GROUND BEFORE I VAPORIZE YOU AND ALL YOUR WORTHLESS FRIENDS!" the insectoid SWAT officer yelled once it had seen the rest of the Resistance. Rail-mounted tactical flashlights swept in their direction as the sound of rifles priming echoed throughout the clearing.

Duros, like the others, snapped his hands behind his head and kneeled on the ground as commanded, trying not to draw the ire of the trigger-happy officer. He started angrily when the insectoid kicked Selvig to the ground but remained begrudgingly in place even as the officer shouted, "Fire on my mark!"

"CANCEL THAT!" a familiar voice rasped as a brutal-looking man stepped out of a nearby van. A formation of Enforcer spacecraft flew overhead as the newcomer stood in front of Duros.

The first aspect of Dakota Scott that Duros took in that night was his old, worn steel-toed combat boots, flecked with mud and dried stains and studded with half-inch-long nails on the bottom. Allegedly, the nails were there to provide the more humanoid members of Nebulos's law enforcement community with extra footing during tense situations, but they also worked just fine as interrogation tools in the field and back at base. It wasn't an uncommon sight over at the NSF headquarters to see perpetrators roaming the hallways, crying as they nursed an injured limb shot through with bleeding holes in the shape of several footprints.

The next thing that caught Duros's attention was Scott's leggings, and then his torso, which had an enormous military rifle resting across it, in true fashion for the Secret Police captain. Every inch of fabric that was covering Dakota's muscular build was padded or armored in some way, and a lot of _that_ armor was, in turn, covered with kneepads or a great tactical vest or some kind of ballistic-gel-and-Nebulan-steel exoskeleton.

Lastly came Scott's head, which was just about the worst thing of the whole picture. Square-jawed and built like a sledgehammer, everything about his head seemed to convey brutality. The close-cropped hair on top of his was covered with a faded navy SWAT baseball cap that sat on a cocky angle as if daring someone to point out that it wasn't on right. His cold blue eyes glittered with repressed thoughts of violence and unrepentant sadism.

"I know this guy," he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. "Don't shoot him - yet."

Duros didn't move a muscle. He had seen Scott bait "perpetrators" with this exact tactic. He hoped with all of his heart that the other members of the Resistance wouldn't fall for it either.

"Avoy Duros, Commissioner of the NSF - and his friends, I suppose. My underling," he added, eliciting a wave of thuggish laughter from the other SWAT officers.

"Scott," Duros acknowledged cautiously.

The captain smirked at the sound of his name and continued in a falsely obsequious tone. "So, what brings you out this far from home tonight, citizens? Out for a walk? Vehicles break down on the side of the road? Don't you know it's past curfew in the City at this hour? You know, as your friendly _neighborhood_ peace officer, I'm always here to help if you need it."

Chiron spoke up in a quiet, yet clear, voice, even daring to meet Scott's eyes. Duros's heart began beating a little faster as he hoped for the second time that night that the SWAT captain was in a reasonable mood. "We have residences nearby, Peace Officer. When the ship crashed, we immediately rose to the occasion and attempted to give aid to the crew - which, of course, is our duty as good Nebulan citizens."

Scott nodded, an agreeable expression crossing his chiseled face. "Sure. Sure, that seems _exactly_ like the sort of thing a certain group of rebellious sociopaths would say to cover up an anti-Institute crime against all Nebulankind! On your feet, pustules! You've just signed your death warrants!"

The firearms around the clearing snapped up again, except this time there were more of them. Even the pilot of the nearby helicopter aimed a pistol right at Duros's vulnerable chest.

"Dakota, WAIT!" he cried, springing to his feet. "You _know_ me! You've been in my house before, eaten underneath my roof! You know that I live nearby, and you know that I'd never do anything to cause harm to the Institute or our god-President Lord Zarak, his name be exalted! What Mr. Coyle here says is true, sir. With all my authority as Commissioner of the NSF, I stand behind him. Please, Scott, allow us to leave, return to our homes. We won't attempt to disobey the City's grand curfew again, even in the matter of another accident."

For a bone-chilling moment, Scott's eyes didn't change a bit. His rifle was raised at Halle Weiss's head, nostrils flaring in bloodlust. Duros felt like he was frozen in place on the edge of a cliff - any bare movement ready to cause everything around him to break down.

Then Scott chuckled, an ugly sound that gradually grew in volume and intensity until it caught on to the rest of the force. Their rifles lowered enough to not be an immediate threat, and the Resistance remained in place, confused and still more than a little scared, as the SWAT team exploded in mirth.

"You kidding me, Duros? I'm not going to kill you. You're too valuable to the NSF to get rid of. As for the reason why you're here, well, there's a reason we call it our Zarak-given purpose to help others if they're in need. Did you find anyone, my friend? Any . . . _corpses,_ perhaps _?"_

Duros shook his head solemnly, still visibly shaken. "Not a soul. It must have been an automated cruiser, or mostly so. Perhaps if you get down there quickly, sir, you could find the pilot. We, unfortunately, could not."

Scott seemed to register this and spoke. Duros noticed that he didn't turn the safety on his rifle back on. "Maybe, Avoy, you just weren't looking in the right places. Some lifeforms, my friend - dangerous lifeforms - can hide almost in plain sight if they don't want to be found, take it from me. Makes 'em sneaky, untrustworthy; needing to be taught a lesson in good Nebulan civility, if you get my gist."

The Resistance leader deliberately met Scott's direct gaze for the first time that night. "Then it's a good thing such paragons of the community as yourself are always willing to protect Nebulos and her people from the forces that would seek to tear her apart."

"Don't sell yourself short, Avoy. Provided you keep up the good work, I'm sure our Beloved Leader will see fit to send some good fortune your way. You and your neighbors can go. Men, let's move! We've spent too much time here as it is."

"Mr. Scott . . ." Duros said after a pause as the SWAT captain moved past him. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you looking for in that wreck that requires all of this fire-and-manpower? It's just some computer-controlled merchant's vessel, isn't it?"

Scott stopped in his tracks, but his men continued towards the crash site at his command. Most of the Resistance was now standing, but even those who were still on the ground flinched away from his sudden stop. "Mr. Duros, you may be useful to the Institute's plans as the NSF Commissioner now, but never forget that you're up against some pretty heavy competition. The higher-ups, more powerful than you and me combined, favor those who do their job and don't ask too many questions when compared to the likes of some crazy extremist who tries to know any more than he needs to. You're a good guy, Duros, stalwart, strong against the . . . more _unsavory_ citizens of our glorious planet, and not bad at your job on top of that. I'd hate to see you have an accident in the prime of your career."

He turned again and resumed his march. "Take it from me, it really bugs some of the higher-ups at the Capitol when their underlings don't play nice."

With that, Dakota Scott stomped off into the underbrush and was gone.

The rest of the Resistance shakily made their way to their feet. Duros hoped with all of his heart that the Autobots' solid-light hologram would work properly, and Dakota would shortly get bored and return to the Torchlight. The clean-up crews would likely come tomorrow, he thought - assuming the SWAT team didn't find anything worth their time.

"All right, guys," Duros said, weariness in his voice, "let's go home."

* * *

The rest of the night was a blur: Duros somehow managed to get home with barely any gas in the tank and a cracked axle, made sure his friends could safely make it home, and finally retired with his mind aflutter, though he found when he walked in the front door that he sorely missed his lost trenchcoat. He told Maureen the whole story, omitting the part where he had volunteered himself for a combat experiment, of course. Though they trusted each other completely, Duros wasn't quite sure he should tell her about that part just yet. After all, he had his own reservations about the whole thing, and he still wasn't quite sure he'd ultimately follow through on the offer. But the Decepticons were out there, somewhere, and what could he do in his current position to protect his loved ones?

Maureen and Avoy retreated to their bedroom, but it was still some time before Duros fell asleep. What had he gotten himself into? What about his family, his wife laying aside him? What about the others' families? Was all of this really worth it?

Would joining the cause make a difference for the people of Nebulos?

He drifted away, lost in his thoughts.

FIN

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Well, I can't think of anything to say that hasn't already been said before. It is my solemn wish that this new rewrite of Emergence has proven itself vastly superior to the early editions of my work. Hopefully, I was able to tidy up the narrative, fill any stray plot holes, and put my characters firmly in their place as their true incarnations.

The rewrites of the chapters to come will be finished at a later date not far from now, and the all-new chapter should be online as soon as I can get everything in order. For any old readers that still maintain interest in my stories, I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my heart, and for any newcomers that have managed against all odds to make it all this way, welcome! I hope you have enjoyed this chapter, but sadly, I cannot hear your voice through cyberspace, so leave reviews ~ because I can't fix my work if YOU don't tell me what's wrong with it! Once more, thank you.

-The Doctor (Do)


	2. Executive Dominance

**Author's Note (4/9/19):** I've rewritten this chapter too! It's still a bit darker than the usual fare, and the companion piece over on DeviantArt is still Decepticon Galvatron, but now the chapter's hopefully a lot better than it once was!

Well, that being said, I've not much to say. The all-new chapter is in the works and will arrive soon. In the meantime, please, enjoy the story!

-The Doctor (Do)

* * *

The night the warships crashed was, to begin with, a normal night on the Lancer Family Farm. The Bovoids were calmed for the evening, all the animals had been fed and tended to as they needed it, and the machines were powered down for the night. Now it was time to settle down to a feast.

Nine chairs out of ten were filled around the Lancers' simple and unremarkable, yet wide and sturdy, dinner table. The only member of the family who was missing was Silas, gone to a Resistance meeting. It was a risky thing to be sure, but he had assured Ma and Pa twenty times over that what he was doing was for the good of Nebulos. Though Ma had expressly forbidden her eldest son from participating in any large-scale raids or engagements, Pa had reason to believe that Silas may have been involved in at least one of the "cowardly terrorist attacks" that were presented on the news as the most unspeakable, profane acts ever construed by a living organism in the entire universe. The boy did take after his father's infamously hot Lancer blood, after all.

Needless to say, the whole Lancer clan - especially Ma and Uncle Phil - was still leery about the so-called "meetings" that took place every couple of days, but there hadn't been any complications yet. Pa pinned this on his old friend Avoy Duros, a notoriously level-headed and brilliant individual who hadn't fallen completely down the rabbit hole like the rest of the planet seemed to have done. In many ways, Robert Lancer and Avoy Duros were very much alike, and the former man knew that if Duros could help it, no harm would ever come to his son.

Gramps raised his arms, beginning the mandatory nightly Gratitude. "Let us give thanks to-" he grimaced, obviously playing his part for the ReZidence camera situated over the glassware cabinet, currently pulsing red like some kind of disgusting mechanical abscess leaching life and happiness from the house itself, "- High Honorable President-for-life Lord Zarak for this meal."

As the overly long prayer stretched on, the other members of the family followed suit in private, bowing their heads and closing their eyes. They weren't praying to their president, though, all but one worshipping another, different deity, one that glorified the original Nebulan way of life and all that came along with it; championing the natural simplicities of peace, love, and kindness taught by Zetca's Heavenly Counsel. This stood in direct contrast to the blind feeding of Government's ego that the Gratitude demanded from all citizens. The other one seated at the table, Aunt Jean, hailed from somewhere back on Earth and was thus engrossed in her own worship.

" - and we thank you for relieving us of the burden of difficult choices, the all-evil. Hail Zarak." Gramps finished, rolling his eyes.

"Hail Zarak," his kin repeated with just enough inflection to make them sound interested, and they began to eat as soon as the red light blinked off on the ReZidence camera. The meal was phenomenally delicious. As always, Gramps told one of his stories, a real sidesplitter about his many mishaps and triumphs flying the Interplanetary Mail and Cargo Service as a teenager. The house was filled with laughter, at least until the ReZidence camera's red light blinked warningly. As quickly as it had erupted, the house fell silent save for the clinking of plates.

"Mmm. Parríex, dear, these potatoes are delicious. Where _did_ you get them on such short notice?" Grandma Lancer asked her husband, attempting to break the silence with a quiet conversation.

"Funny you should ask," Gramps replied, swallowing a bite of meat beforehand. "Apparently, Jean managed to send for a bag or two from her folks the last time she called 'em. Normally they're considered perishable foodstuffs and generally unable to be shipped on your average intergalactic-grade cargo hauler, but the restrictions don't count traveling through hyperspace on a cruise ship, s'long as they're not sentient enough to suffer shock on, y'know, on the way over. Besides, Earth doesn't have any of those big transports that you normally see flying about out here. We planted a few out back about a month ago - potatoes, mind you, not cargo haulers - and I can't lie, they're doing _stellar_." He snickered a little at his own joke.

"Do you know, I've never seen potatoes grow so well before, not even back home," Jean remarked.

"Now, isn't that cool? How well an alien vegetable can do so far away from the sun that gave life to it in the first place, I mean," Ma chipped in with awe in her voice. She leaned back a little and gazed out of the nearby window, a dreamy smile crossing her face as she watched the stars twinkle.

Robert smiled. There was the Maribel he had fallen in love with all those years back - always relishing in the little things and loving the big things that the universe had to offer her. He found himself following her line of sight and came to rest on one particularly bright red Eastern star, perfectly framed in the dining-room window and seeming to grow brighter every moment.

"Chalk it up to one of the big mysteries of the universe, I suppose," Gramps said good-naturedly, rising from his chair.

"Right! Anyone want dessert?" Phil chirped, jumping up after Gramps had. Of course, everyone replied in the affirmative and the two men swept off to the kitchen to bring it out. Robert's jaw slowly dropped, as did Maribel's, as they kept watching the skies. One of the kids dropped something, probably a glass of some sort, but Ma and Pa weren't even paying attention anymore. Blood rushed in their heads as it suddenly became world-shakingly apparent that the extraterrestrial object that they were watching was not, in fact, a star but a massive spaceship, hurtling towards the farm and wreathed in so much smoke it was impossible to discern the actual shape of the spacecraft.

"EVERYONE GET UNDER THE TABLE **NOW!** " Robert shouted in alarm as the rush inside his mind became a roar, and then an earth-shattering **THOOOM** as the ship hit the ground about one and a half miles out in the pasture. Gramps just managed to leap underneath the dinner table as the great noise reached the house, sending plates and vases crashing to the floor and heralding a shower of debris against the house's eastern side. The new family pet, a small creature from Earth called a "dog," whimpered in fear, and two of the children started crying while the oldest daughter attempted to console her siblings.

Robert stood as soon as the room stopped shaking. "Dad, come with me. I'll need your help. Phil, Jean, you too. Mari, you and Gram stay with the kids and call the Enforcers, but get to the basement and stay there until one of us gives you the all clear."

The words hadn't even left his mouth, but the two women were already making moves to protect the children, quickly ushering them into the basement. As Maribel Lancer went down herself, she and Robert locked eyes one last time, then disappeared to carry out their respective tasks.

* * *

Bill Wadd was having a very good night.

It was 8:30 - the suns were just dipping below the horizon - and already he had fired two people, written three requests for more Industrial taxes to be funneled towards his company, cited eighteen people, issued exactly thirty and a half invoices, given verbal warnings to ten more people, bought another stapler just to mess with one of his underlings, and drank twenty cups of this new Terran beverage called "coffee". It beat the snot out of Victory Drink.

He shook himself briskly, the caffeine getting to him, and decided to take a walk before the beginning of his second-to-last shift.

The twenty-first cup of coffee he'd poured that day in hand, Bill set off at his signature predatory pace. Though he ached to sprint ahead, twitching and singing "O, Nebulos" at the top of his lungs, he heroically resisted the urge. It was important, he thought, to maintain a level of sureness in every situation, as this caused the lower-class drones to respect you.

Or fear you. Bill didn't really care.

He inhaled a deep breath through his slightly crooked nose, broken in a holepuncher incident in his college years; savoring the smell of hot-off-the-press paper, rolling chairs, coffee, and despair - a scintillating aroma that pleased Bill to no end. Like it always did, this glorious soupçon prompted him to indulge himself with a long sip from the mug in his hand.

While he was indulged in the hot, steamy beverage, he walked by one of the workrooms, normally packed with hardworking Victory Corporation Unlimited employees. Bill privately called the room his hunting grounds and elected to keep walking, seeing that everything was up to par on the inside, before realizing that that was not the case.

Because tonight, there wasn't anyone in the room. There were _supposed_ to be people there, but the place still remained frustratingly empty.

He paused. Swallowed. Counted to ten. Then he leaned back, slightly, slightly. His suspenders strained on his chest.

There _really_ wasn't anyone in the room.

A sadistic grin spread across his face. _I'm looking at close to thirty citations,_ he thought to himself, _Plus twenty-nine more for not properly deactivating workstations before leaving._

Bill felt like a schoolboy as he quickly prowled down the hallway. Oh, the looks on their faces would be tremendous! He fantasized happily about the reports he'd have to sign releasing the workers from servitude. They were good fantasies, every one of them, and soon, it seemed that he would be able to live them out - in real life and full color, too!

Finally, he found the missing workers in the third-floor cafetorium, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows like the cattle they were. Nearly squealing with delight, he took a moment to compose himself before making his appearance.

When Bill would step out, he would once more project the image of a calm and controlled boss.

"Heey, guys. Say, Mil'Tén, I believe you have my stapler, n' it'd be just great if you returned it, m'kay? Now, all of you left your respective work stations without notifying me first, so I'll have to-"

"Are those . . . giant robots down there?" one of his underlings murmured, stopping his smug tirade in its place.

"Yeah, they're shooting up the Lancer farm, it looks like. What're those kinda things called? Seken-somethings, right? Why would they be here?"

"Yes, yes, if you'll all excuse me, you are in violation of-" Bill tried to say, but the nevous chatter drowned him out.

"Cybrites, I think. By Zarak, that's terrible! Do you reckon anyone's hurt?"

"Don't know. Looks like they're running pretty quick, all right."

"Cripes, is that a giant wolf?"

"Ahem! You are ALL in severe violation of section-"

"Boss, look! The Lancer farm's being attacked!"

Indignant, Bill was shoved between his sweaty minions, no less than three of them dripping unidentifiable slime from several different orifices. "Hey! What are you doing? I swear, all of you are THIS CLOSE to being fired! Fired, I say! Mill'tén, all of this was your doing! I'll-I'll DOUBLE fire you! I'll-"

The words died in his throat as he watched the carnage taking place across the cornfield. The quaint farm, once home to a family of good, hardworking Nebulans that Bill even knew personally - he had tried to buy their pasture off of them many times - was now torn apart and being ransacked by mechanical monsters. Fire and explosions lit up the rapidly waxing night. As the Victory Co. manager watched in shellshocked awe, an ape the size of a house punched an innocent Bovoid as it tried to flee, reducing it to . . .

Bill forced himself to look away before he threw up.

Shakily, he said, "By Zarak, someone has to help them. Mill'Tén, call the cops and then get down there. See if you can talk some sense into those - those _monsters._ "

But Mill'Tén didn't move. Rather, he scrutinized his boss with small, beady, _evil_ eyes. He screwed up his piglike face and opened his mouth to speak his malevolent ilk.

"Um, um, OK . . . Actually, why don't - With all due respect, sir - why don't you do it, Mr. Wadd, sir?" he said slowly, timidly defining every word as he spoke. Curse him!

"Yeah, show us how selfless you are!" another worker said, slowly catching on.

"You GOT this, boss! Bzzz."

"Earn that Humanitarian of the Year plaque in the lobby!"

Now that wasn't fair. Bill had won that plaque fair and square, barely paying off anyone to gain the prestigious award. But he couldn't step down now. He'd look cowardly, and that was the exact opposite of what he needed to look good at the company retreat that summer. So, with the corners of his mouth tight and torn-up resumés dancing in his eyes, he fearlessly muttered affirmation and left, the mug of still-warm coffee all but forgotten on a nearby table.

* * *

The situation was not good back on the ranch.

Most of the Bovoids were dead, the seventeen surviving ones left terrified and injured. As the average sow was twice as tall as Robert was, they could turn dangerous if anything spooked them some more. The Lancer family patriarch was devastated at the loss of his barn and milkhouse, but he always was one to see the best of things. Truth be told, he was just thankful that they hadn't stampeded yet. Gramps, an experienced rancher, made to calm the animals as Phil and Jean began to observe the damage.

Evidently, the starship had hit the ground out in the field at such an angle that it itself had sustained very little damage but dealt exponentially more to the crops and farm-buildings. There were a number of gaping hull breaches, pouring out smoke as if they were the mouths of some dying multi-headed dragon, but other than that the ship was mostly intact. Some parts of the ruined barn still stood around the smoking hulk, including what remained of the barn office, complete with a desk and a still-buzzing work light hanging overhead.

Rocket fuel soaked the ground around the aft of the starship, which was still hot from reentry. The air gently shimmered closest to the ship's dark purple hull, so dark it could easily be mistaken for black. Fading highlights of a lighter shade were crisply accenting the ship's many edges, including what seemed to be the bridge area, about twice as tall as the nearby dairy at its highest point. Robert shivered as his gaze was drawn to an enormous array of smoking holes on the side.

Cannon holes.

A merchant's trading vessel this was not. Above this tier of offensive weaponry, the ship's name was marked in bright purple Universal English.

 **REMNANT**

Strange name, that.

About ten feet away from the ruins of the barn's office, a large airlock portal was glowing weakly except for a violet badge prominently displayed on the center. It kind of looked like a face, if a face was made of knives. Weird. Robert called his brother and sister-in-law over for their input.

"I'm beginning to think that this may have been a bad idea," he explained to them. "The gunning deck up on that tier, this sigil-thingy on the airlock . . . we could have a warship on our hands."

Phil nodded in agreement. "I was thinking the same thing. You can't really see it on this section, but there's some _enormous_ rips and tears farther down the portside. And listen-" he rapped the side of the ship, yielding a very sharp, dense noise, "-that's heavy armor, definitely military-grade. I'm none too smart, but a cruise ship this ain't."

"Well, so what, Phil?" Jean said. "Just 'cause this blighter's a ship o' war doesn't mean its passengers aren't worth savin'. I say we go in one a' the breaches an' work from there. Bob?"

Robert stared at the creepy sigil emblazoned on the airlock door. The whole thing carried a nature of hostility for some reason, but the eyes disquieted Pa the most; triangular and sharply pointed, as if the sigil wanted nothing more than to cut everything to pieces with its glare. The eyes seemed to stare back into his very being. The fact that its lights still hadn't faded when all the accents had long gone was another check in the "creepy" book. If he looked long enough, it almost seemed like it was moving, the area around the eyes.

"Robert?" Phil asked, jarring his brother out of his stupor with a jolt.

"I - I'm sorry, guys, I really don't think we should be here. I don't like it any more than you do, but maybe it _would_ be best to leave this to the proper authorities-"

Suddenly, with an abrupt shriek that shredded the calm night air, the airlock that had previously seemed so solid was ripped apart like paper. A face from Robert's nightmares loomed above him, lit devilishly from behind by a raging fire inside the ship: dirty silver with a purple three-pronged crown atop its brow, its narrowed red eyes gleaming with unconstrained maliciousness. Sparks flew from the monster's head as the terrible face contorted and twisted in unnatural ways. Then, in a high, cold voice that made Robert's heart skip a beat, it screamed, "KILL!"

* * *

Bill Wadd was having a very bad night.

He had been betrayed by his underlings, deprived of his coffee, and made to go out to what essentially amounted to an out-and-out war zone. He didn't understand why his men lacked the common Nebulan decency to volunteer themselves for this. Thoughts of the lavish punishments he would visit upon them upon his return were the only things that sustained him.

After what seemed like hours of referrals, citations, and filthy cornstalks, Bill stumbled into the homestead.

Nearly every building was on fire now, the flames leaping and clawing up to touch the sky. The mechanical monsters looked even worse up close. They destroyed everything in sight, reducing even the most sturdy buildings to rubble. The colors they donned seemed wrong somehow, poisonous, especially the more vibrant ones.

A horrifying abomination, an anthropomorphic black wolf with bat wings, bounded out of the dairy and threw a holding tank at a nearby silo, destroying it. In the burning wreckage of the barn, a pale resemblance of a bull stomped through the remains of its organic counterparts. Two creatures with similar color schemes, and - much to Bill's horror - a dragon and the ape from earlier, took turns tossing around a small, vaguely humanoid shape.

But worst of these horrors was the leader. It surveyed the grisly proceedings with a twisted smirk on its face, one that stretched just a little bit farther than a mouth was, by all rights, supposed to go. Sparks shot from its head as if the creature's malice had condensed itself into a semi-physical form and began overflowing from any possible opening that it could find. At its side stood several quasi-similar, hideously deformed warriors standing at attention and a rather unassuming purple mechanoid with an enormous sword.

There was absolutely no way Bill could possibly stop these goliaths; but, to his surprise, he felt something brave, selfless, and incredibly stupid kindle within his chest. He sucked in a deep lungful of air, let it out, and marched toward the carnage. Though he didn't have much of a plan, the spark of heroism, however brief, had him fully convinced he would manage to drive off the insurgents, or at least distract them enough for someone else to take over.

Suddenly, the ground erupted underneath his feet with a loud, muffled explosion. Towers of sand blasted upwards and sent rubble flying. A wooden plank smashed against his upraised arms, driving splinters deep into his flesh and leaving him on the ground.

He felt woozy and his ears rang. It felt as if his head was filled with cotton to the point of bursting. Through the haze, he saw . . . a desert tan tank, of all things, drive out of the hole, its turret spinning left and right as it _talked_. Somewhere in Bill's mind, he felt he was going insane.

"I see you, organic! You can't hide from me . . . I'll find you sooner or later."

Unable to keep his eyes open through the pain, Bill drifted into a restless and painful sleep, muffled explosions resounding through his head.

* * *

Several times he woke, but what he saw was too terrible for him to stand.

A giant bat tore off the roof of the house, screeching.

Children ran in vain from a monstrous crocodile.

A puppy escaped out the back door of a ruined house, running into the night.

Two women, each carrying a small child, sprinted down the driveway, a maroon tank's main gun unspeakably indifferent to their sacrifice.

These were the horrors he faced, so Bill lay there, concealed by the rubble, and sobbing for the ultimate fate of the Lancer family.

* * *

He woke up.

The inside of his mouth tasted coppery and dry. His head pounded so badly he couldn't see straight. The splinters, driven an inch deep into his arms, burned painfully. There was a dead silence fallen over the area; except for the nearby sound of incongruously calm voices.

"Working well, Weirdwolf's systems are. Pleased, he is."

"'Cha. That was, like, totally the best systems check I've ever taken."

"Forget that, Needlenose. Did you see that one shot I made?"

Laughter, light and airy. "'Course I did, Quake. Pretty impressive."

A rumbling sound replaced the laughter, and Bill took a minute before realizing it must be laughter too. "Thanks. I don't think they even felt anything. Us three are easily the best marksmechs on the Remnant. Ain't that right, Spinister?"

" **PURPLE.** "

"Ya sure about that, Quake?" the lightest of the four voices contested. "What about, say, the Commandos? Or, heh, Stampede? Pit, the Twin Fists of Unicron are _renowned_ for their gunslinging . . . Better'n even Slugslinger. I've, like, seen 'em in action before, and it's nothing I wanna be on the receiving end of."

"They can blow it out of their exhausts. We're the main power here," the individual with the deeper timbre responded.

"Yah, but-"

A forceful voice spoke up. "Enough fraternizing, idiots! Just because Captain Crazy and his merry band of zombies are outta town doesn't mean they can't return without warning. It'd do you all some good to stop talking scrap about our leader. Nutty as he is, he's still perfectly able to kick your collective skidplates. You don't want a repeat of the Chaar campaign, do you? So shut it before he hears."

"Smell them, Weirdwolf will. Hear also." the first person affirmed.

"Will you, son? Will you?"

"That's enough, kitchen boy." A new speaker, with a deep and powerful voice that chilled Bill to the bone.

There was a moment of utter silence. Then, the forceful one - if Bill had known just a little bit more about the universe, he probably would have recognized it as some kind of field commander - spoke up quietly. "What did you just say, punk? You wanna say that to my faceplate?"

"I called you a kitchen boy, Octane. And you're going to let me get away with it, 'cause you're still not sure you can handle me, despite all your fancy new upgrades. You see, beneath that advanced combat armor and those flashy rifles, you're still just a sniveling little twerp who runs when he's faced with someone stronger."

Even the act of opening his eyes sent pain shooting through the Nebulan's body. His wire-rimmed glasses were broken, fine cracks spiderwebbing the lenses. He was suddenly reminded of the phrase _blind as a bat,_ and an image of the terrifying monster crossed his mind. That thing hadn't seemed blind at all.

With the numerous cracks, it was difficult to make out individuals, but he knew there were at least ten robots huddled around a fire in the remains of the barn, near what could only have been the crashed ship they had arrived on. Two exceptionally large mechs, one blue and one gold, were partaking in a heated conversation.

"It's Mega-Octane now, Squeezeplay, but make no mistake, I could scrap you even before I got these upgrades," the gold one growled.

"An extra prefix doesn't change a person. If you're so powerful, then let's you and me fight. We'll see just how well you fare without your strike team."

The gold mech - Mega-Octane - was about to reply, but before he could, eight terrible shapes fell from the smoke-choked sky. They were the six vile, warped warriors, the purple swordsman, and, worse of all, the leader, still carrying a palpable air of malice about him.

"This isn't over, you overgrown crab," the golden warrior snarled. Then he straightened and put a finger to his head. "Mega-Octane to all sentries. Return at once."

Though it seemed impossible, even more shadows emerged from the darkness, melting into the scene like quicksilver. Within less than a minute, their number had almost quadrupled.

Without warning, a giant, vaguely Bovoid-shaped beast passed soundlessly over Bill. Fluids and grime dripped off of its massive frame, and Bill caught a glance of clogged pistons and gears in its disgusting underbelly. Now covered with slime and viscous fluids, he wasn't sure whether to pass out or throw up.

He shot for the former option and woke up about a minute later, the slightly acidic fluids coating his body tingling uncomfortably. The leader was saying something in a high, cold voice that drove its way into one's heart and filled it with freezing dread rather than being heard with one's ears. Despite this, the voice still managed to be intimidating, perhaps even more so than a rumbling baritone would have been.

"-that will not be necessary, Harvest. We have scouted out a potential point on which we will build our stronghold. From there, we will make the best of an abysmal situation, track down the Autobots, and finally put an end to Rodimus Prime's irritating person once and for all. And then, we will take over this planet and streTCH our conquest across the cosmos themselves!"

The purple swordsman standing on the leader's right side took a double take. "What? Galvatron, sir, forgive me for saying so, but should we not retake Cybertron before spreading into the stars? You said yourself, in the first days of our grand rebirth, that our sole goal was to reclaim our birthworld for ourselves and for the Chaos Bringer, and nothing more. Are we not severely outnumbered by the Autobots, Neutrals, and Decepticon traitors already? A galactic campaign, especially now, when we barely have a hold on Cybertron itself, is far too much of a risk for us to take!"

"Traitors . . ." the leader - Galvatron - hissed angrily. "Do not speak to me of traitors, Cyclonus. As I remember correctly, you yourself are in jeopardy of outright betraying our master's doctrines and turning on your sworn commander, ME! You should be grateful that I've kept you on for even this long!" His voice dropped dangerously. "Sometimes, Violet Prince, I question if you truly consider yourself, deep in your spark, a true servant of Unicron."

Cyclonus seemed taken aback and, in fact, a little depressed by this, and he continued in a lower tone. "My lord, I owe the entirety of my meager existence to the Chaos Bringer. . ."

Another mech, thin, lanky, and yellow, interrupted with the voice of the first person who had spoken around the fire. "Quiet being! Hear something, Weirdwolf does."

Bill's breath caught. Had this "Weirdwolf" heard him breathing? It seemed impossible, but so much had violated his sense of what could happen and what couldn't this terrible evening. He watched in terror as the dark army's collective heads slowly gravitated toward his position.

"I hear it too. Sounds like an engine."

"Without a doubt. Shall we send a spearhead, my lord?"

"UP THE SHUT SCRAP! Weirdwolf cannot hear vehicle piddles with Unicons squabbling like sparklings," Weirdwolf said, kneeling on the ground.

There was silence for a few moments as the scrawny mechanoid listened intently, periodically sniffing the air. By now even Bill could hear the approaching vehicles. Finally, Weirdwolf spoke up.

"Small vehicles, yes. Roughly human-sized, they are. Mmmm . . . coming quickly from the southeast. Some type of SUVs, loaded to capacity, they are. Not law enforcement, Weirdwolf thinks. More than likely federal forces. Six of them, yes. Overloaded, one is. Recommend a course of action, I do."

"KILL!"

Galvatron fired the enormous laser cannon mounted on his right arm into the field with neither rhyme nor reason, incinerating plants and ground alike. Sparks showered from his head, setting small patches of dead grass afire. Most of the others cheered. Even through the frenzy, Bill could have sworn he heard a muttering of "Saw that coming, Weirdwolf did."

Eventually, the purple sword-wielder seized the cannon and took a power core out of the back in one fluid motion. The weapon went dead, and the shouts, laughter, and cheers faded.

"CYCLONUS! Give me one reason why I shouldn't vaporize you this instant!" Galvatron screeched wildly.

"My lord Galvatron," the soldier in question sighed long-sufferingly. "With all due respect, you are wasting ammunition, a resource we have precious little of. If we are to _kill_ the Autobots as you say, we will need every last round, yes? What is more, you are giving our position away to the enemy."

Galvatron growled. It was strange, assigning a name to such a horrible creature, a small rational part of Bill thought. "Fine. But I will be watching you very closely from now on. TRIGGERHAPPY! Quit firing! You're wasting ammo, you idiot!"

A blue mech with wings stopped shooting his own weapon. "Sorry."

"Arriving, they are. Ready get," Weirdwolf warned.

Every last robot prepared some degree of weapon, the whines of several energy rifles crescendoing into being. Bill was now on the verge of a panic attack. He had seen on the news what guns could do. Even alone they were dangerous, going off at random intervals and killing folks, but in the hands of a person, they could kill so many more people, giving even the Department of Peacekeeping troubles. Now, with near-countless guns - each almost the size of a large couch - pointing at him, he was ready to burst. He had seen the footage of Jacob Repent's shooting. Now he imagined the same thing happening to him on a much bigger scale. He had a brief mental image of some snot-nosed teenager talking to their friend.

 _You remember the William Wadd Incident?_

He didn't deserve to die! He was just a programmer, for Zarak's sake!

With Bill's fevered state of mind, he could almost be forgiven for getting up and making a run for the approaching SUVs, despite how much it hurt, screaming, "Help! There are psychotic metal men trying to kill me!"

In fact, this hasty decision may have saved his life.

Mr. Razier of the Department of Peacekeeping had been told to shoot and kill any non-mechanoids left alive after the Decepticons' rampage. After all, there couldn't be any witnesses to what was about to happen tonight.

He saw the programmer standing up even before the latter individual began to run. Razier aimed his handgun. It was difficult to draw a bead on the artillery-pitted driveway, but the Peacekeeper was a professional. Indeed, if a purplish Decepticon named Misfire hadn't shot first, the story of Bill Wadd may have ended prematurely that night. Fortunately for Bill, Misfire was a terrible shot who couldn't hit the sky if he was aiming for it. So when Misfire shouted "Squishy at one o'clock!" and let a bolt fly, Bill was thrown into the air and over the convoy as Razier's bullet sailed harmlessly beneath him and embedded itself into a piece of rubble. From the agent's view, Bill was vaporized by Misfire's laser, reduced to one of the many pieces of rubbish that sprayed against the SUV's side.

But Bill landed hard in the cornfield and felt something break. Luckily, it wasn't his neck. Lava filled his lungs, and through a haze of nigh-unbearable pain, he deduced that he had broken a rib. He fought with all of his strength the urge to cry out, for that would mean certain death. Undignified as it was, lying in the dirt provided excellent camouflage.

Another Decepticon with aim nearly as bad, Reentry, let out a low whistle. "Nice shot, Misfire."

"Thanks! I told you guys I'd been practicing."

"Enough. We shall see what these Federal organics want," Galvatron growled. "Keep your weapons at the ready, men. If we find their continued existence to be troublesome, we shall kill them all."

Cyclonus glanced at his leader in irritation. "My liege, shouldn't we kill them _first_ and ask questions afterward? Usually, organic races are not overly welcoming of _our_ existence, especially their governments. Do you recall Megatron's memories of first contact with Earth, sir, or the Terrans' attitude towards us to this day?"

"Silence! They've stopped," one of the blue mechs on Galvatron's other side snapped.

Eleven serious-looking agents stepped out of the SUVs. They were all outfitted in the black suits and ties that one would expect from such an organization, except for one young man who came out of the forefront vehicle. He was dressed casually in a black jacket, open over a Knights of the Universe concert tee, and hobbled about on a crutch. A giant smile was stretched over his face like he couldn't wait to meet giant murderous robots.

The agents opened overly large side doors on each of the SUVs, and their occupants exited, each one carrying themselves with an air of nobility despite the still-flaming ruins all around them and the angry metallic warriors regarding them with a mind to kill. Several of these newcomers were restrained to wheelchairs or carried crutches themselves, but they too acted as if each of them were on their way to some kind of vitally important business meeting, far above the average man in both social and moral standing.

"What is the meaning of this?" Galvatron bellowed, obviously holding himself back from flying into frenzied action. "WELL? Speak, organics, or we shall vaporize you where you stand!"

A soft and very familiar voice spoke up. When Bill recognized who it belonged to, he lost concentration and slipped, jarring his broken rib. He clamped his hand with his teeth to keep from screaming and ended up drawing blood.

The voice belonged to President Zarak.

"An alliance, my friend. I should like an alliance. I am Lord President-for-life Great Leader Oshana Zarak, the president, leader, and officially recognized god of Nebulos and all of its colonies. Welcome to our humble planet!" A pause. Bill cleared the tears away from his eyes and squinted into the crowd, trying to locate Zarak. He couldn't see him, which was odd. It should have been easy to point him out in the middle of the crowd, based on how the news always portrayed him.

"Well, you've certainly been busy," Zarak continued, chuckling. "Don't worry, we won't punish you in any way, shape, or form for this . . . incident. This was a family of nobodies, anyways. One hundred percent expendable. Isn't that right, Mr. Shrute?"

"Correct, President Zarak," a ridiculously tall, thin man confirmed, bending over to look at someone in the front of the crowd - Zarak, perhaps? But why couldn't Bill see him?

"See? We're all friends here," Zarak's soft voice continued. "Now, my proposition."

A spark flew from Galvatron's head as his face contorted into a slightly impossible sneer. "Fine. Hurry up with it."

"I'm so glad to have met such open-minded individuals! Now, where was it . . . Ah, yes.

'Here on Nebulos, life is good. The two suns keep us evenly heated and warm almost year-round. We are located centrally for most A-class worlds in the Local Sector, which maximizes both commerce and tourism. A wide variety of lifeforms and creatures from around the universe regularly visit this shining jewel on the Milky Way's brow, and we welcome them with open arms.'

'However, with the mistaken import of choice Terran culture, revolt has been inspired. Though the persons in charge of this import have been sufficiently punished and retaught, and the files have since been deleted and expunged from the public record, Terran visitors are still flooding in at an alarming rate, infecting the populace with poisonous ideas of freedom. Obviously, they do not understand our laws and, more importantly, my official command.'

'For the sake of governmental and planetary stability, this cannot stand. Thusly, I, Oshana Zarak, have recently recommissioned a shadow organization known as the Hive. What was once a sharing of minds to further advance Nebulan government and culture has now become the headquarters of a furious battle against ideas and ideals which blatantly spit in the face of the Zarak Corporation - and of Nebulos as well.'

'My biomechanical friends, I beseech you to assist us. We have obtained intel of your noble exploits, your glorious history, and your high technology, Great Galvatron; and we have formulated a solution to this problem and others. You may doubt our capabilities to help and even wish to cause us harm before seizing Nebulos for your own purposes, but with a combination of our superior intellect and your superior technology, we believe a compromise can be reached - _without_ warranting unnecessary bloodshed.'

'Enter the Hybrid process. This plan was conceived by our Department of Science under the very talented Sir Wergild Vorath working in conjunction with the Department of Peacekeeping. After one of our agents recovered some choice Autobot weapon concepts from Cybertron itself, we reverse-engineered their project for our own use. Using Cybertronian technology, it will be possible to create what we hope will stand as the new face of our once-great planet, acting as guardians of order, great warriors to combat our foes in whatever dirty holes or decrepit pits they may hide in, and good friends to all those who would seek to live in peaceful harmony with our institution - a transformable man. By patching organic tissue, including the brain, vital organs, and stem with a small amount of mechanical material supplied by us, we would theoretically be able to create a self-healing cyborg with enough power to reindoctrinate our beloved planet, effectively keeping the peace for all Nebulankind.' Are there any questions?"

A black Decepticon with unnerving red eyes stroked his pointed chin. "Zis is possible. I have heard of zis kind of experiment before, in ze Archives of Vector Sigma, though ze original manuscripts have been long forgotten or destroyed. Given time, ve could theoretically create vat you say. But I vould need test subjects first, to ensure ze process's safety - and, of course, a copy of your plan's concepts."

Zarak laughed lightly. "We'll take care of everything in that regard. Anyone else?"

"What's in it for us?" Galvatron growled, rotating his cannon-arm's shoulder as if the act of holding it up for so long was wearing on him.

Moles of congeniality dropped from Zarak's voice, changing it from sweet to bitter in a second. "Well, I was _hoping_ you'd say that. You see, the Zarak Institute's best scientists have run preliminary tests on the original plan's hypothesis, and we've come to the conclusion that a Cybertronian could be . . . _augmented_ a certain amount if it were binary bonded to another being, in this case, a member of the Hive. Intrigued yet?"

"Do tell us of your master plan, O great leader," Galvatron sneered mockingly.

"Of course," Zarak said, either missing or electing to ignore the ridicule in Galvatron's voice. "Through extensive research of the Cybertronian psyche and physical makeup - again, provided by our partners over at the Department of Science, we've noticed that there are a few . . . ah, areas of improvement - unnecessary aspects of a Cybertronian's physiology, if you will - that we can use in the creation of an optimal peacekeeping and combat squad. Make no mistake though, my friends, this little deal will take a great deal of sacrifice if our agreement is to reach fruition. You may not wish to-"

"Our Lord Galvatron grows impatient, organic," the blue warrior to the left of Galvatron barked, leveling an enormous blade mounted on the end of a long staff at the gathered Hive. "Either get to the point . . . or we'll force you to get to _ours._ "

The Hive stepped back as one. Several of their members chuckled, deep in their throats. Their bodyguards, who had previously kept their weapons trained on the Cybertronians, let the barrels drop a few inches. Zarak continued in a voice that was colder than the one he'd used before, yet was somehow still soft and relatively ingratiating. Bill still couldn't see him. He realized that he hadn't breathed in a while, and cautioned a long, slow, and shallow exhale.

"No one speaks to me in such a manner," Zarak muttered, though his voice was still audible. He continued in a louder tone directed back at Galvatron and his troops. "Yes, pardon me. I get carried away sometimes. First off, I'd just like to say this: do not resist us, for we have ways of getting what we want. Our partnership will go much easier if you all are perfectly cooperative. This is your only warning."

The Cybertronians didn't take too well to that and instantly became angry. Despite this, Galvatron held up his hand for order, a mildly interested light in his red eyes and a feral snarl still hanging on his lips. His left-hand man stepped forward, as did five other similarly-colored mechanoids. "Continue!" Galvatron's lieutenant roared, shifting his grip on the oversized spear.

"These _aspects_ that I speak of . . ." Zarak finished, nonplussed. "Well, I'm afraid that we require . . . your heads. Oh, and your weapons would be nice too, but are unnecessary."

Immediately, uproar spread through Galvatron's ranks. The Hive, pleased at this disquiet, allowed laughter to permeate theirs.

"You can't be serious!"

"Our _what?_ "

"Zere must be anuzzer vay! Simply binary bonding vould be acceptable."

"They must be joking!"

"No way!"

" **BROWN.** "

"NO TAKE GUN!"

Galvatron grinned maniacally. "Mechs, it would appear this brief parlay has fallen through. Kill these politicians!"

The Hive's laughter quickly turned into panicked cries as the Decepticons powered up their weapons. The agents pulled their pistols as the less encumbered Hive members took a head start on their wheelchair-bound brethren. In the pandemonium, Bill gained a clear sight line to Oshana Zarak. In direct contrast to how he was portrayed on the television, Zarak was not a tall man, especially confined to his wheelchair. As a matter of fact, he seemed to be shorter than the average person. His body was wizened and his regal clothes hung loosely on his small frame. He even looked rather worn out, to Bill's eyes. He appeared unable to move spare his head and hands, yet he still fearlessly stared down these creatures with guns akimbo. His blank yellow eyes flashed with defiance even as Galvatron aimed that giant orange-barreled cannon directly at him.

"Decepticons, put an end to this farce! FIRE!"

Bill closed his eyes, ready for the eruption of gunfire. None came. He allowed himself a long ten-count, then looked up.

The Decepticons were frozen in place, only their terrified faces still able to move.

"What the - **HELP**! I can't move! My gun won't fire! What's happening? SOMEONE SAVE ME!" a gray mech at the front of the crowd screamed.

"Shut up, Slugslinger!" another countered. "We're ALL stuck in place! You panicking isn't helping matters!"

"WHAT IS THIS SORCERY? CYCLONUS! You are responsible for this! Release us at once!"

"Lord Galvatron," the swordsmech's weary voice came, "if I were responsible for this predicament in any way, would I be frozen as well?"

Zarak let out a light exasperated sigh. "And here I was thinking we could do this without escalating to the firearms stage. Please, gentlemen, disarm yourselves."

In unison, the mechanoids set their various weapons down and sat cross-legged on the ground, shouting in alarm all the while. When their heads simultaneously cocked to the side, the one called Triggerhappy started making a noise like crying.

"Grk-how-Triggerhappyshutup-"

"To be honest, I don't really know," Zarak replied. "One day, about sixty years ago, I just realized I could make little stuff move. Screws, nails, that kind of thing. I crept my way up until I could move tractors. My doctor said that I was a little angel, but not special in any way, shape or form, even after I demonstrated my power to him by ripping apart the hospital I was born in. You know, it's the funniest thing, because my race isn't telekinetic . . ." He smirked. "Guess that makes me just about the most special person around back home. Only thing is, I lost my ability to move as I became more adept with my . . . unique skill. It all started when I couldn't feel my pinky toe -" His voice abruptly turned stony. "You're evading. Now, are we all speaking the same universal language, or do we need further encouragement? Lord Galvatron, you rethinking your decision?"

"I will never submit to a wretched organic fleshling, vermin! NEVER!"

Zarak whistled. "I was worried that you would say that. Additional encouragement it is. This is gonna be fun."

Slowly, slowly, Zarak clenched his upturned hand, and before Bill's eyes, the Cybertronians crumpled slowly into themselves. Metal cracked and popped as they folded. Bill could hear them straining to stay sitting straight up, but their efforts were futile in the face of Zarak's power. Soon they were bent triple in unachievable shapes, groaning and shrieking as Zarak laughed, like a cruel child grinding an anthill into oblivion underneath his heel.

"Stop! STOP! No more!" Galvatron shrieked as his legs crumpled underneath his chest. "I agree to your terms! I AGREE TO YOUR TERMS! Crush Cyclonus instead!"

Zarak released the Cybertronians entirely, causing them to flatten out, gasping. He pushed a lever on his wheelchair, coasting right up to the once-fearsome leader.

"Kill you . . . kill you all . . ."

"Not today, I'm afraid. Galvatron, are you ready to follow me into the pages of history, accepting me as your one true leader and, dare I say, superior? This is your last chance."

"N-no . . . kill . . ."

"Wrong answer." Zarak raised his hand again, and Galvatron was lifted into the air by what appeared to be his throat.

"Y-YES! YES! RELEASE ME AT ONCE! I'LL MAKE CYCLONUS DO ANYTHING YOU LIKE! YES!"

"Now, are you genuinely saying that, or is it just because I have the upper hand?" Zarak purred.

"Genuine!" Galvatron coughed. "It's genuine!"

"Now, see, I _want_ to believe you, but your words just don't ring with the truth I'd like to hear. I think I should take a security prize. Say, do you Cybertronians have hearts?"

"Wh-what kind of question is - "

Suddenly, Galvatron's chest began to convulse terribly. He screamed in utter agony, a scream that filled the night air. Cyclonus and his blue ally leapt up, sword and spear in their respective hands, but they too were stopped by a simple wave of Zarak's left hand. The Decepticons were forced to watch, frozen in place once more, as a pulsing red crystal burst its way out of their leader's chest, shedding oil and other, more viscous fluids everywhere like it was a still-beating heart. Bill knew then and there he would have nightmares for years to come. The look of utter glee on Zarak's face that Bill could see, even with his glasses broken, drove the point in. Everything he had been told about Nebulos's "Great Leader" fell away as the Hive cheered for Zarak. The benevolent President was actually a cruel . . . What was the word from Earth?

Oh, right. Dictator.

No! That wasn't correct, was it? It couldn't have been! These Cybertronians had attacked a perfectly fine farm and killed vital assets to Zarak's grand plans - that is, the Lancers and their property. It was only right that the President punish them as such.

But why did this experience seem so . . . so _brutal,_ so visceral? Why did it look like Zarak was _enjoying_ the sensation so much?

Galvatron's scream turned into a broken rasp as his throat tore itself ragged. Even more of the thick blackish-red fluid spurted out of the hole in his chest, splattering to the ground in great semi-solid clumps. The light in his eyes faded to a dull rust color, but the crystal still pulsed feebly. It remained connected to Galvatron's chest via a few odd wires and tubes.

"Well, this isn't a pump or anything like I was expecting. What even is this? You!" Zarak barked at the mech with the creepy eyes. "You seem well-versed in mechanics or whatever your counterpart to biology is. What is this crystal thing?"

"It iz a fragment of ze Chaos Bringer himself's power source." He scowled, the fullest amount of movement he could muster. "You have no idea vat you are playing vith. Zat alone vill grant us ze ability to reduce you to mulch."

"And how, my friends, are you going to _do_ that without the help of your mighty leader?" Zarak asked. The rest of the Hive rallied themselves behind him. "You belong to us now, and there is nothing any of you can do about it! Now follow us - into the pages of history!"

Without warning, Galvatron - impossibly - struggled to his feet. Internal fluid was still pouring out of the wound and it looked like he might keel over at any moment, but the murderous fire was still burning in his darkened eyes.

"What . . . _how_ are you still alive?" Zarak all but whispered, subconsciously moving back a few feet. The Hive was collectively inching bit by bit towards their vehicles.

"You will NEVER lead my men, organic! Command of the Armada is and always will be mine and mine ALONE!" the warlord rasped, lunging for the red stone. Zarak yelped, backed up as fast as his wheelchair would allow, and closed his fist, causing several things to happen all at once.

The stone-like thing jerked back with Zarak, tearing itself entirely free of Galvatron, who fell to the fuel-soaked ground screaming in utter agony. The Cybertronians were released from the Nebulan's hold, throwing their ranks into chaos. Some raised their weapons, unsure of whether or not to fire, while others didn't even bother to do that, instead settling for slinging withering stares at the Hive and backing a few steps away from the proceedings.

Cyclonus and his friend with the massive spear charged to their leader's aid. The bodyguards' rifles snapped back up again, heralding a spray of fully automatic fire, which, much to Bill's surprise, seemingly did nothing to dissuade the Cybertronians. It was only when the young man with the crutch slammed open one of the SUVs' bay doors - revealing a massive cannon - and fired it at the former mechanoid that their assault abruptly ended. Cyclonus, not having seen the rocket until it was far too late, fell to the ground, crimson smoke pouring from his wound.

The other one lunged at Zarak, accompanied by his five deformed wingmen. Another six rockets flew into each of them and exploded, but the leader was only staggered for a moment. He raised his spear and shouted a bone-chilling war cry, but was blasted back once more as another came, and another, and another, each hitting their mark and covering the spot where the warrior had last stood in a blanket of fire and smoke.

Finally, the missiles stopped coming and the smoke lifted, joining the massive cloud in the sky kicked up by the ship's crash. Just like his leader had done, the spearman got to his feet, leaning heavily on his weapon for support. He raised his left arm, in it holding a massive two-barrelled blaster pointed directly at Zarak . . .

And then cocked his head to the side, seemingly catching a whispered message from a voice only he could hear. A snarl briefly crossed his face, but he powered down his blaster and holstered it at his side. Bill watched as the firearm magnetically attached itself to the blue warrior's hip, but it escaped no one's notice that the Cybertronian maintained a very tight grip on his spear's shaft.

"Are we . . . nng . . . is everyone calmed down now?" Zarak panted. "Gentlemen, I don't want to fight you - any of you - but I will if it is necessary for you to see the light."

The warrior backed away a few steps and knelt on the rubble-strewn ground next to Cyclonus. "That will not be needed. We will provide you some assistance in your - grr - your _noble_ crusade, if only to crush Rodimus Prime and whoever else he's dragged along with him," he growled.

"Excellent," Zarak chirped, his light attitude returning. "Oh, and before we depart for your new home for as long as this campaign will last, you should know that I floated trackers on each and every one of you while we were having our little talk. Break formation on the way back, and I'll know. Try anything out-of-order and I'll know." He smirked. "You'll meet a crushing defeat."

The Cybertronians looked at each other warily, shifting their feet. Cyclonus let out a tight curse through his teeth and attempted to stand, but only made it to his knees.

"We'll discuss your own terms and conditions once we arrive. Now . . . you Cybertronians are capable of form-shifting, yes?"

* * *

The mechanoids shifted forms, and Bill found that he recognized some of their alternate modes. There was the nightmarish, disgusting bull, the crocodile, teeth stained bluish-green with something Bill didn't want to think about, the tanks, both maroon and desert tan, and the silo-destroying anthropomorphic wolf.

The entire Hive reentered their vehicles, the young man with Reptilian Keratosis getting his own private van. Everyone else filed in wherever they could fit. Bill even caught a brief glimpse of a Eukarian. One by one the SUVs drove away, the mechanoids begrudgingly following and the incapacitated form of Galvatron tied down to the lead vehicle's roof. Weirdwolf, bringing up the rear in lupine mode, started down the driveway, but he stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. His head abruptly snapped toward Bill's exact location. For what seemed like an hour, they stared at each other, man and mechanoid. Bill's heart hammered against his broken ribs. He could feel and smell the Cybertronian's hot exhaust coming in intermittent bursts.

Finally, Weirdwolf broke the stare and bounded away without so much as a growl, much to the Nebulan's surprise. Why would the fifteen-foot-tall killing machine wish to spare a lowly organic?

When Bill was positive the convoy had left, he got up slowly, every slight movement feeling like knives in his chest. He forced himself to take shallow breaths, to avoid stabs of excruciating pain shooting through his body; and reached into his pocket only to find his mobile communications device missing. Great.

Bill cursed, gave himself a moment of silence for the memory of the Lancers, and set off down the long road home.

* * *

Epilogue

President Zarak was smiling, despite the fact that he could no longer feel his pinky finger. Soon, his pathetic body would be destroyed, and he would rise, reborn, from the ashes.

He wondered idly if the Phoenix race from the planet Valkane-3 regenerated at the end of their lives, but soon reached the conclusion that it didn't matter. No one would be able to stand against the might of the Zarak Institute once the process was complete, not even the immortal.

He gazed around the van, drinking in the faces of the people around him. His dear half-brother and "Get Out of Punishment Free" card, Blofis, recently shot in the kneecap by some street-level Peace Officer who had no idea what he was getting into. The wound wasn't healing well at all, and the doctors had said the outlook was grim even with the invaluable resource of Oshanacare. Until, of course, the Hybrid process was invented.

There was Cygnus Burns Jr., heir to a wealthy throne and betrothed to the middle child of Zarak himself's many daughters, Llyra. That is, until she was swept away by the accursed Galen Duros, Cygnus's best friend and eldest son of the Security Force commissioner in the City. Poor Cygnus had his future wife taken away was "accidentally" shoved out of a high window by the Galen scum and, worst of all, had an important business deal fall through in the process. The interloping teenager was swiftly punished, yet Zarak's treacherous daughter disappeared soon afterward. Doctors saved Cygnus, but the damage was done, and even now the pain of betrayal was etched deep into Cygnus's handsome face.

Liam Boll, head of security at the Capitol. By day, he was a respected member of the community, guarding the People's Home with his life. But by night, Liam was the Night Stick, a burglar who wasn't above kidnapping children of political dissenters. He was presently admiring several gold rings situated on his long, nimble fingers.

Last but not least, there was one of Nebulos's elite, the former Minister of Science Sir Wergild Vorath of Sålka Harbor. He was accessing his standard-issue mobile communications device, searching for jobs. It was funny, Zarak supposed. Just a few unauthorized live experiments and the public was screaming for Vorath's death. All he did was sew a few Eukarians together with some harmless nobodies, how bad was that? The experiment was even still alive at the end of the day, a good one in the Minister's book. Zarak almost made a mental note to streamline the Count's application process out of habit but caught himself. They were all about to be converted into what essentially amounted to gods, and they would have no need for jobs. Which reminded him . . .

He glanced at the computer screen lying on his lap and smiled. Around forty perfect little soldiers, not counting Galvatron - the Cybertronians' commander was old news to Zarak now, though he had some ideas on what to do with the willful mechanoid - ready to carry out his every whim. Too afraid of punishment to rise up, and utterly beneficial to a higher power. This was the beginning of an amazing new Nebulos.

He called his secretary on a video conference tab. "Ah yes, Miss Dublyn-Head. Would you please send out a mandatory program on all screens regarding a Level Three curfew? Tell all Nebulan citizens and tourists to close their dwelling's drapes and curtains for the night. I want all ReZidence cameras active and rolling through the night to make sure no one peeks."

"Yes, Mr. President. May I ask why you've put this in place?"

"No, Elegana," Zarak said mildly, though he wasn't a fan of the girl's prying, "you may not. In fact, all staff has left the Capitol, yes?"

"Except me, sir, affirmative. They've all retired to their apartments."

"Good. This curfew applies to all Institute personnel as well. Make sure they obey my decree and then run away yourself." He paused. "Oh, I'm sorry, miss. Too soon?"

Elegana self-consciously looked down at her recently-disabled legs. The memories of that terrible night which robbed her of her mobility flashed just behind her eyes. Zarak felt satisfied, seeing this emotional hurt in his secretary's pretty face. He secretly envied her for having control of everything above the waist. He was the President, for crying out loud! Didn't he deserve more than his brattish understudy?

Oh, but he would get more than her. His new _pets_ would see to that.

Now Elegana seemed to compose herself, though anger burned in her eyes. "No sir, I'm fine."

"Get some sleep, Elegana!" Zarak said jovially as he hung up. "It's going to be a big day tomorrow."

* * *

Epilogue II

 _That's quite a bit of smoke,_ Silas Lancer thought to himself as he turned down the driveway. _Wonder what Pa's burning tonight?_

It had been quite a night, and he was excited to tell his family all about it. He wouldn't even care if the ReZidence camera was running - metaphorically speaking, of course.

Suddenly, a reedy-looking man with a face pulled tight with pain and fear stumbled across the dirt road, holding his side. He wore broken wire-rimmed glasses, suspenders, a tie, and torn dress clothes.

"Hey! Stop!" Silas yelled, all but catapulting himself out of the car, but the man paid him no heed, instead continuing until he was swallowed by the darkness and the smoke.

Silas suddenly realized something was terribly wrong. He got back in the vehicle, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and shot down the pothole-pitted road.

That night he cried until the twin suns rose the next morning.

 **FIN**

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Yep, still dark and gloomy as far as I can tell. Don't fear, though - this story's not ALL depressing and bleak. It'll get better, later on, I'm sure.

Please be sure to leave reviews, friends ~ because I can't fix my work if YOU don't tell me what's wrong with it! Thank you much!

-The Doctor (Do)


	3. Five-Year Plans

**Author's Note (5/27/19):** Yes sirree, it's the all-new rewritten version of The Rebirth's Chapter Three! This is the last chapter in which I noticed _really_ severe mistakes, so the rewriting of the next few chapters should come along pretty nicely.

Per the usual, the companion piece over on DeviantArt is still Decepticon Mindwipe, who can still be found in the same folders he's been in this whole time. Again, however, I will probably be making the rounds through the art pieces over there too, so keep an eye out for changes that may occur. Enjoy the story! Thank you.

-The Doctor (Do)

* * *

"Resistance," Duros began in the usual fashion that he adopted every time they met up. Unfortunately, before he could continue, he was rudely interrupted by a greasy-looking fellow sitting in the back row.

"Resistance? Aw shucks, Avoy, I thought you said that we'd be disbanding that ol' chestnut for a few weeks! I thought you just called us over for tea with our new pals! What will my boss say when he finds out I'm not at work for the . . . what, eleventh Wednesday in a row? That sound about right to you guys?"

The Resistance's leader scrutinized the man who had spoken. Michael Fulgure. A manic fortyish bachelor who worked for the NSF's Forensics squad. Cleaned up crime scenes after horrendous murders by day, raided Peace Warrior outposts with the likes of Erik, David, and Miles by night. Took a strange pleasure in his night job, kind of desensitized to violence, sense of humor inherited from his uncle on his mother's side.

A nice guy, and totally devoted to the cause to boot. He could be funny sometimes, but, all too often, he'd be equally as annoying. Duros suspected that today was one of the latter examples.

He pushed up his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, thank you, Michael. Ladies and gentlemen, Rodimus Prime and I have something big to reveal to you today, but first, I am afraid that we must get the bad news out of the way as soon as possible."

"Yes! That's my favorite kind!" came the predictable voice.

KC Poe smacked Michael on the back of his head with her wing. "Shut up, Fulgure. Can't you be serious for a minute?"

"Ow . . . Whatever, ya giant crow. I'm cool. Think it's _you_ who needs an attitude adjustment."

On any other day, Duros might have been amused at this tirade, but he _really_ wasn't in the mood today and, frankly, Michael's irreverence was severely misplaced, given the situation. He modulated his tone to be the perfect mix of grave and serious and said, "May we please move on now?"

Michael stopped rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry, boss. Just trying to add some humor to the situation."

Duros nodded curtly and continued. "As you all know, Silas could not attend today's meeting because he's currently trying to get permits from the Department of Life for his family's funeral service."

A wave of gloom moved through the group's ranks as the words left Duros. Silas was a good kid, and he didn't deserve what had happened to his family by any means. No one did, really. The government had run two programs in all over the past weeks since the fateful night regarding the crash. According to the news, a merchant's vessel had lost control over the Rural Quarter and crash-landed on the Lancer Family Farm, yielding no survivors for either party.

Some former Resistance members felt there should have been more coverage about the tragedy, but most felt it was best to simply pay respects and move on. However, there was no question in either camp that the news wasn't telling the whole truth.

"Unless there's one Pit of a coincidence going about right now, this 'merchant's vessel' is actually the Decepticon warship that caused us to crash," the leader of the Autobots, Rodimus Prime, said. "And that means the Decepticons have probably left the ship by now. We've sent a team of specialists to, er, _perform some investigation_ on the wreck, but they haven't arrived at the crash site yet. If we're correct - and let's be honest, it'd be totally improbable if we're not - your livelihoods are in severe danger. Some of the things I've seen . . . it ain't pretty, guys. They've committed too many atrocities and war crimes to count, and they even summoned our equivalent of the Antichrist just to win a century-long spat that started out as a political debate. Your beautiful planet will be next if we can't do something about it."

Tyler Solomon raised two skinny fingers. "Why can't you fight 'em yourselves? Us Nebulans ain't exactly a warrior race as it stands, and if these 'Decepticons' are like you guys, well," he laughed shortly, "I guess we could give their finish a decent thrashing."

"Excellent question, Tyler," Duros replied. "These Decepticons are born and bred for war and have been driven blood-crazy by the fallout of the Great Cybertronian Civil War, which means they'll be ridiculously hard to defeat by such a small, relatively untrained group of Autobots. Communications with Cybertron are down. Cerebros - the captain of the vessel, that is - estimates that he'll have to pretty much rebuild the _Fortress Maximus's_ comms aerial from the ground up. It's a process that could take months, and that's a conservative estimate. In that time, the Decepticons could visit a great deal of destruction on Nebulos, with casualties on the Autobots' side far outweighing the Decepticons'. However, there is a plan in place to strengthen their ranks. Before we continue, how many of you would be interested in helping out, at the moment, that is?"

Skimming over the rows of chairs, Duros could see nothing but winces, frowns, and discomfort in the faces of his friends. They looked around the cavern, everywhere but directly at Rodimus Prime, the two officers that he'd brought to the meeting, and Duros. The Nebulan felt horrible, presenting his friends with this choice, but he knew each and every one of them had courage within them and fierce love of their planet, no matter how dire the situation.

He cleared his throat. "Look, none of you have to do this. I don't want to put any of you in danger, and neither do they. If you don't want to participate, that's fine and we will not think any less of you for your decision. All we're doing is asking if any of you'd be interested in lending a hand."

"Avoy, you keep saying 'help,' and you're not really elaborating on that. Could you at least explain what, exactly, this 'help' consists of?" Flint Lockheed nervously pointed out.

Duros's nose twitched as he sniffed in the sharp scent of rocket fuel still lingering in the cave. The Autobots had somehow completely salvaged their ship and rebuilt it into some kind of stronghold - a fortress, as it were - complete with a massive command tower since his last visit a week ago. It was amazing - and kind of bordering on improbable, he thought - how they had managed to do that in such a short time period, especially since regaining communications with Cybertron was estimated to take so long by comparison.

He glanced at Tex Arcana, the brain surgeon, who was sitting comfortably in the front row. His short-clipped gray hair reflected the light given off by the rudimentary lampposts that had been set up around the cavern. Though he had the customary pointed ears of most Legacy Nebulans, his skin lacked the mild green tint that healthy people had. That little detail alone had sparked many a discussion during meetings about his true origins. The man was a mystery, even to his closest friends. All Duros really knew about Arcana's personal life was that he was a phenomenal brain surgeon, fiercely loyal to his friends, and he liked alien cuisine. Tex nodded his confirmation and the two men stood, facing the audience. Brainstorm, the blue Autobot by Rodimus's side, rubbed his hands together excitedly and began to speak.

"So I invented a theoretical process . . ."

* * *

I must hurry.

That psychopath organic has Galvatron underneath his quadriplegic thumb, and I've seen firsthand the destruction Galvatron is capable of visiting upon his enemies.

I am the enemy of the Organic, the Organic has an "ally" in Galvatron, ergo, I am the enemy of Galvatron.

This is what would commonly be seen as "bad".

I don't believe hypnotism would even work anymore. Even if I managed to hypnotize Galvatron, put him to sleep to get the fleshling, the Organic would most likely use my leader's body as some kind of grotesque marionette to behead me anyways. I have no choice but to play along with this twisted game of his.

My surgery ward has been completed: an operation slab large enough for a full-sized Warrior, sanitized and ready for occupation. Stores of organic anesthesia and other fluids, attached to a Cybertronian-sized Gauntlet-applicator. The applicator is two sizes too large for me, but I lack the "pull" necessary to ask for a smaller one.

A desk overflowing with schematic datapads sits attached to a rudimentary four-walled enclosure isolating the ward from the unwashed masses of the Decepticon ranks, specifically Apeface, Snapdragon, and Horri-Bull. Alas, at some point they will have to come in and soil my perfectly clean ward. I'd spent the past lunar cycle poring over these datapads, and I have a good idea of how the operation will play out. There are rudimentary medical tools in my subspace, but absolutely none of them are sufficient for operations of this magnitude.

"Frag!" I shout in a moment of frustration, slamming my clawed hands down on the slab. Though it yields a satisfying dent, the sound of the low-tech door opening ruins my joy.

"Whaddya want now?" one of my guards - a pathetic simpleton by the name of Liam Boll - asks. I turn my gaze on him and am pleased to see him squirm as my memetic agent affects his tiny, _tiny_ brain. I do not lift my visor to hypnotize him. Too risky, especially with the sickly glow of Galvatron's fading strip-lighting in the dark behind him. Of course. There will no longer be one without the other. Behind Galvatron - oh, why does he not fight back? - I catch a glimpse of two minuscule yellow eyes, gleaming at me as if to pose a challenge.

 _What are you going to do now, Cybertronian?_

A pleasingly threatening growl leaves my vents, causing Boll to jump. Savoring the small victory, I speak.

"I am afraid I do not have ze proper tools for zis operation, my friend." My rich West Burthovian accent flows like a merciless river over the guard, causing him to quiver like a jar full of petroleum jelly. "Perhaps if you _vastes_ hadn't _tortured_ us into leaving prematurely, ve vould not be having zis conversation, you and me," I purred loudly enough for the Organic to hear outside. "But vat do I know? I am, after all, just an **_imbecile_**." I permit a cold grin to spread across my faceplates, showcasing my dagger-like dental plates.

Boll trembles like a small child. "S-so what do you need, master - er, prisoner? We can s-supply anything you like . . ."

Even dampened by my visor, the memetic agent worms its way into his feeble mind, subtly making him acknowledge me as his master. The Organic, egomaniacal as he is, will no doubt have words with my guard at a later time.

"No, I am afraid ze materials I require are rather . . . customized. Zere is only von case of zem zat could be accrued in ze time you have allotted to us. I vant to speak vith your president."

The guard gulps, looking as if he's swallowed a ball bearing, and trips over himself trying to exit my ward. "R-right away, sir - PRISONER! I'll get him immediately . . ."

He lets the simple oversized hinge door slam behind him as if the Organic isn't half a mechanometer outside the ward. I take the time to wipe the expression off my faceplates, retracting my fangs with a quiet _whirr_. Smiling. A disgusting, informal expression. Besides, intimidation most likely will not work on the Organic. With my enhanced bestial auditory sensors, I can hear almost everything the two Nebulans are saying just outside the open-roofed ward.

"Boss, I'm telling ya, he's scary. He just looks at you, and all your dirty secrets come to the surface like some kinda sandworm. I barely made it out of there . . ."

"Nonsense, Liam," the Organic's irritating, soft voice replies. "I'm sure the negotiations will go swimmingly. Oh, and it's 'Lord President Zarak', not 'boss'. We really need to cut that unhealthy habit of yours."

"Yes, Lord President Zarak. Sir."

"Excellent. Galvy, get the door, will ya?"

I quickly dial my audio receptors down so the sound of the door opening won't cause any damage, and cross the room to the desk covered with schematics. I settle into a believable pose, pretending to look through the datapads, just as the door opens again, rather forcefully this time.

"Ah, Lord Galvatron," I say, lifting my external audio receptors and wings in an exaggerated expression of surprise. "Vat can I do for you today?"

"He's fine, thanks," comes the voice of the Organic. He rolls in on his wheelchair, looking mildly offended. His crimson facial markings are furrowed and his yellow eyes narrowed. Despite this, he still has a sleazy politician's smile plastered across his face. "And he will be for the duration of his employment here. So, when we enter a room, how about a nice big 'Greetings, Lord Zarak?'"

"Greetings, Lord Zarak," I say, grinding my denta together so hard I feel like that hulking Mecannibal Skullsmasher. "Vat can I do for you today?"

"Well, Mr. Boll has informed me you are lacking the materials needed to perform the Hybrid process."

"Zat is correct."

"Excellent. And you said this equipment is unattainable?"

"It is attainable, however, I vould need to leave ze basement and retrieve ze Extensive Surgery Kit from ze wreck of ze _Remnant_."

I can see it in his pale yellow eyes. He wants this disgusting process so badly, I can quite literally smell it. But he doesn't want any of us Decepticons out of his eyesight. Out of habit, I consider lifting my visor, but I am too in control for that. The Organic seems to deliberate on his choices for a while, and with an internal jolt, I notice Galvatron's weakly pulsing Chaos Stone attached to the back of his wheelchair - gifted to him by the Elder God Unicron himself. The Chaos Stone was the centerpiece of the Rebel movement. A symbol of endless power, a monument to what Decepticons can accomplish, given time. The bridge between the natural and the supernatural, our War and something greater than it. And now, it hangs on the back of some alien mutant's wheelchair as if it were nothing but a useless ornament. Of course, Galvatron doesn't look much better. Quite frankly, I'm shocked by how much he's deteriorated since the first encounter with the Organic.

Surprised as I am, the only external expression I allow is giving Galvatron a once-over. The ancient warlord's lights are operating at half power. His colors have started to mute as mine did years ago, and of course, the gaping hole in his chest is even more disgusting than a wound of that freshness should, by all rights, be. The Energon spilled down his frame has dried to a black, oozing crust, and - strangely enough - denta-like protrusions have begun to grow around the edges of the wound. A side effect of Unicron's corrupting power, perhaps?

My fuel tank churns - quite unbefitting of me if I do say so myself. Could Galvatron be headed down the same road as all those poor souls irreversibly warped into Terrorcons during our long war? To think of it - a monster without any scruples, an engine of destruction most likely capable of bringing ruin and death to a whole planet. How like the warlord that stands before me now, yet how strange the very concept seems. Galvatron the Terrorcon.

The destruction . . . of a whole planet. Hmm.

Suddenly, an idea occurs to me. Galvatron looks as if Mortilius himself is waiting just over his shoulder, all but salivating at the prospect of taking him, spark and soul, once and for all. Why should I not expedite the process for the god of death?

But I must wait. We will see how this campaign progresses. As pitiful the current condition is for the Decepticons, our sorry situation may yet be salvageable.

Finally, the Organic speaks. "All right. I got a plan."

He's not the only one.

* * *

"This is Mega-Octane. Check communications, Retrieval Team A," the Commando's leader says over the comms system.

"Check in, Mindvipe," I say. A moment of silence passes as the others check in.

"Zarak, I have confirmation on all members of the squad," Mega-Octane reports. "By your leave."

"Are you all prepared?" the Organic's grating voice asks in my receptor, which I flick unconsciously as the others begin their transformation.

"Ready as-"

"-We'll ever be," Quickstep and Artfire, the Twin Fists of the Unmaker say, melting into their alternate modes - an interceptor vehicle and a biohazard fire truck. I expertly suppress a shudder, outwardly showing nothing. Mechs call me "creepy," an adjective I gladly adopt, but these two? Dreadwind and Darkwing don't even have such a level of harmony with each other, and they combine!

"Mindwipe, prepare to transport," Mega-Octane snaps with martial authority over the comm. An infinitesimal tinge of guilt bites at me, but I ignore it and convert into my splendid bolt-bat form. Without a moment's hesitation, I scurry up to Galvatron's warship form even as my audios improve dramatically and my impressive wingspan unfurls to its apex. Though I can fly perfectly in daylight conditions, the Organic has already decided that a giant mechanical bat taking off from the Capitol's secret flight deck may warrant some unwanted attention, and thus I must ride on Galvatron until we reach the Rural Quarter. Awkward under any circumstances, but the dead-bot-walking part obviously makes it worse.

"I apologize, Lord Galvatron," I hiss, perhaps to reassure the warlord, as I take hold of his tailfin and my vision dims to infrared sighting. "Zis is ze only vay for ze Decepticon Empire to rise vonce more."

My improved auditory receptors perceive a weak rev from Galvatron's engine, but that is all.

"I am in position, Mega-Octane," I say.

"Yeah, sure looks like it, I can tell you that much," he deadpans without changing inflection.

Primus smite him. How dare he insult me in such a fashion? I become acutely aware of the dozens of optics around the flight deck boring into my alloy, yet I do not blush. I am no easily-embarrassed schoolgirl, nor a warrior with the mind of a sparkling as the Commandos' leader seems to be. Despite this, a small snarl still escapes my vocoder.

"Tailwhip! Stop screwing off and transform already!" Mega-Octane continues.

"I'm doing it already, you slag-processored sack of bolts!" the Enforcer shouts, starting up his rotors and drowning out Mega-Octane's physical voice. Had the old military structure still been in play, Tailwhip would have been court-martialed for insubordination long ago.

"My friends, your trackers have all been activated. Do not attempt to break formation, or I will break _you_ like a toothpick; believe me. Travel slowly enough for the SUV to keep up, or I'll kill you too. Do not attack anything or anyone, because if you do, your last moments will involve being as immobile as me as I rip apart every last fastener on your body until you're nothing more than scrap metal. This is your _only_ warning," comes Zarak's voice over my comms.

"Mechs, start your engines," Mega-Octane says firmly. I have to dial my sensitive receptors down to almost zero as a great rumbling shakes the launchpad. The Twin Fists' engines roar to life, Tailwhip's rotors spiral to full tilt, and Galvatron's powerful single-turbine engine fills the cavernous Basement with its basso thrum. I let out a number of high-pitched clicks, as my comparatively weak beast-mode optics can only see in low-grade infrared, and perceive a large section of the vaulted ceiling lowering, rather quickly for something of its size. Sunlight sears my weak optics as it reaches the Basement floor, causing me to shutter them tightly. Dust rains from the ceiling as I enter a more aerodynamic form, stretching my wings over Galvatron's and adjusting them for the optimum amount of lift.

The flight deck is hardly in position when we take off, splitting the sky with Decepticon might, tarnished but never defeated. Galvatron circles once about one of the Capitol's massive spires, allowing the SUV to leave the Basement, and sets a course for the wreck of the _Remnant_.

* * *

They were just leaving the city limits when the police helicopter broke formation.

Zarak cursed and glanced out the window of the SUV, squinting in the bright light of Nebulos's twin suns. He saw the off-white and black vehicle and was just clenching his fist when-

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Frag . . . Hit a spot of turbulence, sorry! The thermals up here're trickier than Swindle playin' a game of Triad!"

Zarak had no clue who Swindle was or what 'Triad' meant, but he was ticked off. He jammed the radio button integrated into his wheelchair and snarled, "I don't care if it's gale-force winds out there, you'll stay in formation like your life depends on it! Which it does!" He clicked the transmitter off with as much force as he could muster. Still fuming, he checked the tracking screen attached to his wheelchair as well, only to see that the bat and Galvy were getting ahead.

"Brutus, can't you go any faster?" he impatiently asked his bodyguard, who was driving the vehicle.

"Well sir, the interceptor - Decepticon - er, what's his name? Ballet? Foxtrot? Oh, yeah, Quickstep, that's it - sir, he can only go so fast." the young man replied warily. He'd seen his boss like this before, and it worried him to no end. He became acutely aware of the metal brace keeping his bum leg in position and gulped apprehensively.

"Mr. Dublyn-Head, frankly, I don't care about the interceptor." Zarak hissed. "I need to keep my toys in line. Step on the pedal, if you need to, but move faster."

Brutus glanced over at his mentor, Mr. Razier of the Department of Peacekeeping, who shrugged unhelpfully and took another sip of coffee. _Thanks a lot, bud,_ he thought to himself, exhaling sharply.

The young man gunned the engine and shot towards the Decepticon, all but riding his tailgate.

* * *

They'd been traveling for an hour before the city's buildings, underpasses, and vehicles melted away, yielding to the endless plains and farmlands of the Rural Quarter, all cut through by a long stretch of dusty road. This was the type of drive Quickstep and Artfire would normally have enjoyed, easing off their throttles and cruising; admiring the absence of everything, the company of each other, and not having to kill anyone. Sure, there was always a farm in the distance, the occasional bar, small towns, but the Twin Fists had no quarrel against them unless the Chaos Bringer saw fit. Normally, he didn't, electing to leave the settlements for the Final Feast, which the Fists were okay with. It meant they could have even more of the pleasant, solitary drives that both of them were so fond of.

Now, however, was not one of those drives, as Zarak's voice crackled over the radio and commanded them to increase speed.

 _Speed up? He's been riding my bumper all solar cycle._ Quickstep and Artfire muttered.

 _We need to listen to him, Stepper,_ his other half warned. _I'm sure you wouldn't want to-_

 _-be crushed, yes. Slag . . . not sure if I can make it there and back without refueling._

 _I've already fired up my auxiliary tanks._

Quickstep and Artfire smiled. They knew exactly what each other's status was, as they shared a processor, but it was nice to hear a voice that wasn't Zarak's.

"MOVE! The fliers are getting ahead, you dolt!" Zarak yelled over Quickstep and Artfire's comms.

 _Speak of the devil._

 _Move? I'll move for him_ , Quickstep and Artfire snarled as he accelerated rather recklessly.

 _Don't overstep your boundaries,_ Artfire and Quickstep warned.

 _We're almost there anyways. The glitch would probably thank us._

Quickstep and Artfire could hear the SUV accelerate behind him and Zarak yammering away on the radio, but he stuck to the path and didn't waver. Half of him was scared that Zarak would kill him, but the other half was exulting in the frustration he was causing the organic.

His GPS told him he was approaching the turnoff to the Lancer farm, so he slammed on his brakes and engaged his turn signal. The SUV behind him braked, fishtailed out of control, then stopped in midair and settled back onto the road. Artfire and Quickstep, having known this information from his link, had safely slowed far down the road. Feeling cocky, Quickstep and Artfire pulled smugly into the long driveway.

* * *

He bit his tongue as hard as he could stand. What insolence this worm had, to just think he could speed forward like that, so unbelievably ignorant of what was at stake and entirely without Zarak's consent! It irked the President to no end, and it wasn't helped by the fact that Brutus kept glancing back at him as if he was about to explode. He wasn't a monster, for Zetca's sake.

The Dublyn-Head children were funny. Brutus was a kid just short of a milquetoast with no conviction, whereas Elegana had too much of it - which reminded him.

Though they were important members of his cabinet, the siblings were becoming hazards to his plans. It seemed Elegana's little _incident_ hadn't robbed her of her snoopiness. No matter; he had to save face just until he became a god, especially in times like these.

The SUV rolled to a stop as the interceptor peeled to the right, in front of the construction checkpoint, as was the plan. Zarak rolled down his window as the portly demolitions foreman came to the vehicle, face buried in a clipboard.

"Good day, sir, and praise Zarak," the foreman said, without looking up, in an utterly bored tone.

"Why thank you, citizen. I appreciate every prayer submitted to me, of course, but yours just made my day," Zarak replied with a devilish grin. He felt quite amused as the foreman's heavy-lidded eyes widened, and he blinked his pair of secondary eyelids in surprise. The fat man's mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no sound came out but an unintelligible stammer.

"Y-you're him . . . "

"In the flesh, citizen. Say, why don't you and your men take an hour or so break? We just need to tie up a few loose ends, and then we'll be right out."

"O-of course, High Honorable Lord President-for-life Zarak! I would be honored to help Nebulos out in any way I can!" he said, turning without further ado and beginning to issue orders through his bullhorn.

It took about five minutes for the workers to completely evacuate the site. Zarak gave the command to enter, and they were in.

* * *

"Quickmix, what's the situation?"

"Ah dunno, boss. 'Side from a few blokes shovin' rubble 'round with shovels, looks like we're th' only ones doin' any work."

"'E means on th' ship, mate." Stripmine. Always helpful in any situation, really.

"Oh. In tha' case, they're jus' lookin' a' it. They don't 'ave th' equipment to break it down or move it today."

"It makes my suspension system ache just thinking about it," Landfill chimed in.

"From wha' I've over'eard, th' 'eavy equipment'll arrive in a few cycles. We should be quick."

"Copy that," Scoop said. From his vantage point, he could see Quickmix hovering around the ruins of the Lancer family home, drum spinning idly and cement ramp lowered. Of course, he wasn't going to pour yet, as the napalm the Gigantian was currently mixing for fun would have the unfortunate side effect of burning the entire site to ash, and they weren't exactly ready for that just yet. He finished loading the rotting carcass of a dead bull into Landfill's dumping bed. "Stripmine, standby for insertion."

"Roger, boss," came the diminutive mech's answer.

Landfill revved his enormous engine and drove off, taking a lap around the wreck of the _Remnant_.

"There's a few open cracks in the hull, broken window up on the bridge . . . Bingo. Open airlock door, Quickmix, on the port side."

"Already thai, lad," Quickmix transmitted. "In position."

"Good." Scoop said. "Landfill, what's the status of the workers?"

"They're all leaving, sir. Must be break time."

Scoop would have frowned if he had been in robot mode. He wasn't so sure. "Copy. Or someone higher-up told them to leave. Mechs, hurry up, or the foreman'll start to question why his vehicles are still working when all his workers aren't. Quickmix, deploy Stripmine. Landfill, dump your load somewhere close, then hurry back. When you're done, Stripmine, rendezvous at the remains of the dairy. That goes for all of you. Over."

"Roger. Stripmine deployed. Makin' way for th' rendezvous point. Over." came Quickmix's reply. The gigantic cement mixer let out a chuff of steam, then took off at speed, coming to rest about ten and a half mechanometers to Scoop's right.

"Slag . . . Scoop, the Feds have arrived," the Transport Specialist reported apprehensively.

"What are you talking about, Landfill?" Scoop said as he shut off his lights and silenced his engine.

"Sorry, Earth jargon I picked up from one of Slapdash's shows. A federal van is arriving, accompanied by a police interceptor and a HAZMAT fire truck. My datafiles say they match the appearance of the Twin Fists of Unicron. I'm afraid there's also a police helicopter . . . might be that guy from the engagement back in Iacon. You know, the one with that claw-tail contraption?"

"You mean Tailwhip?" Scoop asked incredulously. This mission sure was going to shambles quickly.

"Yeah, that's the one. You should be able to hear him now if you listen."

Scoop turned his audio receptors up, and sure enough, he could just hear the _thud-thud-thud_ of helicopter blades, along with another, more subtle sound . . .

His fuel pump dropped into his tank. Impossible. His receptors simply must have been playing back an archived recording. He rebooted them and listened again . . . No question about it. The distinct roar of a Planet X Warship was sounding in the distance, approximately three thousand mechanometers above their heads. To his knowledge, all of the Planet X Zealots and their vehicles had been destroyed when the Chaos Bringer was, except for one.

Not much scared Scoop. He'd exorcised corrupt data-ghosts from too many people to count as part of his career as a Vicar of Northern Cybertron, he'd fought off battalions of oil-thirsty Decepticons in the Great War, and he'd watched in frozen horror as Unicron Himself, the very monster he'd spent centuries preaching against, appeared in the sky over Iacon and began tearing massive chunks out of his home planet. These, minus the Chaos Bringer, did not scare Scoop anymore. But one thing did, and that was Galvatron. The very idea of a normal Cybertronian so willingly accepting the Anti-Primus and committing such unspeakable acts in his name . . . It had caused Scoop to lie awake, unable to recharge peacefully on his own slab, for many lunar cycles.

He remained calm. Panicking in a situation like this would do no one any good. He sent a quick confirmation to Landfill and opened a comm line to base without another word.

The ever-tranquil voice of Cerebros spoke. "Ah, Scoop. I trust the data recovery mission is going well?"

"Quite the opposite, actually. One of my troops just reported a sighting of a Decepticon squad nearby, possibly including Galvatron," he answered quickly, transmitting half a dozen hurried commands to Landfill and Quickmix.

"Dear me. Did you confirm this report?"

Suddenly, a large purple-and-gray mech fell from the sky, sending dust and small pieces of rubble flying. A reddish-orange spark jetted out of the cloud of dust as bloodred optics unshuttered, visible even through the ash, and Scoop knew in an instant it was Galvatron.

"You could say that, Cerebros!" Scoop nearly yelled over the commlink, switching to silent transmission.

" . . . That isn't good." the helmsman of the _Fortress_ noted, quite insightfully. "I've alerted Rodimus Prime. He's in the middle of a meeting now, but he'll undoubtedly make an exception for an incursion like this."

A black, purple, and brown bolt-bat floated noiselessly to the ground, landing with a light roll and seamlessly converting into a mostly black mech with unsettling red optics, who disappeared into the open airlock as soon as he could.

"I have a visual on Mindwipe as well. Request reinforcements." Scoop continued briskly.

"The Powermasters are en route, but it'll be a while before they arrive," Cerebros said as four more vehicles arrived in the driveway. "Please be careful, Father Scoop. Cerebros out."

Scoop sent thanks over the fading comm line and buzzed Stripmine. "Stripmine, Mindwipe's in there with you. Be careful."

"Good, let 'im come! I'll be givin' tha' wee demon a little taste o' the Lightnin' Drael!" the Mini-Con replied with gusto.

The Vicar didn't share his enthusiasm, to say the least. He watched with bated breath as the dark convoy arrived, waiting for the precise moment to make his move. He disengaged his parking brake and slid back on the mountain of rubble until he was fairly certain he was out of sight. Watching closely as the interceptor's doors flew open, Scoop spun his t-cog as fast as he could, managing to transform in a little more than one-and-a-half astroseconds. His cooling systems kicked in, tolerance warnings appearing on his HUD telling him not to stress himself so badly again. Fortunately, despite the dizziness and discomfort caused by his excessively rapid conversion, it appeared that the noise of the Fist's slower transformation had masked his own. He glanced back and saw that Quickmix - intelligent spark - had done the same. The Gigantian's optics were dimmed as he observed the events from his Mini-Con friend's perspective.

Despite his notable fear, a grin unconsciously spread across Scoop's faceplates. They may have been outnumbered and facing ridiculous pressure, but that was where Scoop excelled.

His battle computer blazed to life, burning like a holy flame.

* * *

"Why are you worthless slagging pit-spawn cowering in fear still? The idiotic glitch has flown the coop! We don't need to sit in here like slagging glitch-mice. I say we exit the premises and kill anyone what gets in our way!" Fangry hissed, trembling with his trademark rage.

"Sigh . . . I just don't know, Fangry. Seems like a bad idea to me. Sigh." Dreadwind replied.

"Will you quit saying 'sigh'!" the Tracker snapped. "You're depressing enough already! You don't need to say sound effects out loud or whatever the scrap it is you're doing!"

"Sigh . . . sorry. Sigh."

Fangy growled in frustration. "Look, I don't see why we can't bust out. Zarak's left the Basement the second that creepy fragger Mindwipe chips a claw, and the only guards left to watch over us are the Discount Iacon Secret Police over there!" He paused his tirade to make a very rude hand gesture toward the security guards, a rare smile showcasing his sharpened dental plates. When the guards were satisfactorily ruffled, he lowered his arm and returned to his trademark angry snarl. "Remind me why you idiots haven't left already? C'mon, I defeated the coppers with a hand gesture."

"We haven't left for the same reason you're whispering, Fangry." Squeezeplay rumbled, indicating the single Hive member and his guard doing work over at the long table. The bodyguard, a young kid dressed in a uniform too big for him, had his eye on the Decepticons and didn't seem too keen to drop his gaze. However, his boss tapped him on the arm and gestured to the papers spread out over the tabletop. The kid reluctantly leaned over the Hive member and began to give his input on whatever project his boss was working on. A strange thing on a planet such as this, by any rate.

Fangry faltered for a moment, then glared at the Saboteur. His visor guttered, already melting from the intensity of his white-red optics. "Whatever. I'm busting out now, and you morons can't stop me. You're all welcome to join me if you like. I'm not going to be an organic's errand boy as long as I'm still cycling air. Peace out." With that, he stood and melted into the ample darkness of the Basement, only his now-faint optics showing as he took the long way around the sparse fluorescent lighting.

"What a downer," Darkwing snarked once Fangry had left.

Horri-Bull belched loudly and scratched his thickly armored stomach plating. "He does have a point, though. It's been gettin' kinda stuffy in here the past couple of vorns."

"Look who's talking, bolts-for-brains! Aren't you and Apeface the ones who're constantly offing gases, _dripping_ all the time, and leaving your disgusting slime all over the place?" Mega-Octane retorted. In response, both Horri-Bull and Apeface let thunderous belches loose in unison; loud enough for the Hive member over at the table to look up from his work in absolute revulsion. The two snickered shrewdly as the Nebulan packed his papers and began to head towards the Basement's exit - a long, metallic staircase that stretched up to meet the ceiling with an impressive array of catwalks and ramps.

"Seriously, though," Apeface all but shouted, "Fangry's right, we _should_ take a stand against this! Would our creators be proud of us sitting here, kept under threat of an organic - an _organic_! Who, by the way, isn't even here right now! Am I right, Mega-Oc?" he said, draping a long arm over the Commando leader and pushing far into his personal space. The overwhelming odor caused Mega-Octane to forcibly reboot, dropping to the ground like a sack of Burthovian nanobot vessels. "Oops. Well, what'cha all waiting for? Let's blow this joint!" Apeface finished with grandiose flair as the Basement's enormous concrete exit hatch fell to the ground with a deafening crash.

Many of the Decepticons cheered, drew their weapons, and made a break for freedom, but some stayed behind, immediately throwing themselves on the ground and placing their hands behind their heads. With a few shots from the powerful Cybertronian weapons of those escaping, the security team waiting on the long staircase were no more.

Apeface, satisfied with the plight, converted to his primate mode and loped off toward the warm sunlight, only to stop short when he felt a low-caliber bullet _ping_ off of his massive frame. He ran a diagnostic check and booted up his overshields, only to find his armor hadn't even been dented. He laughed, slowly turning, to find the young organic bodyguard firing at him with a tiny nine-millimeter handgun. The kid's mottled gray face had fear writ large across it as he tried vainly to empty the entire cartridge into Apeface's head, but not one round even came close to breaching the Decepticon's shields.

 _Click_ , went the gun as its slide locked in the open position. An unmistakable look of _oh crap_ flitted onto the bodyguard's face as he ejected the magazine and fumbled for another on his person. Apeface checked his shields again.

99.99%

A peal of raucous laughter escaped the massive Saboteur. "That's - almost - adorable," he said, raising a hard metal fist. "Almost."

Hydraulics kicked in as Apeface's fist descended, propelling it downward at quite a large amount of speed.

The resulting grease spot made Apeface chuckle, a chuckle that turned into a resounding laugh as he made his exit. It was a laugh that still echoed throughout the subterranean chamber even as a heavily armed Capitol security team burst open the giant double doors two hundred feet above the floor, only to find a heap of dead bodies, twelve Decepticons on their knees in surrender, and one extremely flustered Hive member, _very_ upset over the death of his bodyguard.

* * *

As part of the ship's layout, access from Airlock B passes through a makeshift prison for Galvatron's enemies on the way to the meagre medbay, which happens to be my destination. The prison-block-slash-throne-room is in shambles, torture instruments strewn all over the floor and two loose cells - more like cages, really - thrown about the room.

Were it not for my echolocation capabilities, I would not be able to see more than a few mechanometers around me without activating energy-consuming external lights. However, I am able to "see" everything, rendered in a crude wire-frame on my HUD. I've always enjoyed prisons - the more derelict, the better - but this is not a time to waste on my . . . hobby. I make for the corridor exiting the ruined brig, but before I do, I hear a spark fly on the far end of the room. Strange. Most of the power should have been drained from the ship by now. With an exasperated sigh, I decide to investigate the noise.

I hadn't noticed it before, but one of the cells had fallen in such a way that it had blocked a small alcove off to one side of Galvatron's throne. I manage to push the heavy cell about half a mechanometer away from the alcove and view the scene in front of me.

A wiry Decepticon sits slumped over a small desk, in emergency stasis lock. Datapads are intermingling with the torture instruments on the floor, most of them smashed. At first, I have difficulty putting a name to him, so I pick up one of the pads. Though it's cracked and most likely unusable, the sides are still mostly intact. The title "Inner Circle body redesigns - A-H" is scrawled in messy Tetrahexian script, and everything clicks. This must be Doomshot, Galvatron's reclusive armor and weapons engineer. Though he served under Megatron in the War on Earth, he defected to Galvatron sometime during the Hunt for the Mini-Cons. I briefly contemplate leaving him here to offline, for I have no love for the engineer. Then again, his expertise in body and weapons design could assist me in the dubious task ahead, and Galvatron most likely wouldn't enjoy learning I had left his personal armor engineer to die in the _Remnant_. That is, if Galvatron even cares about his own property anymore.

I open a comm line to Galvatron. "Mindvipe to Galvatron."

No answer. Galvatron's digital presence sits on the other side of the link, closed off and refusing communication.

"I don't have time for zis," I say aloud, and try to call someone else. "Mindvipe to Qvickstep. Come in."

"Yep." the Fist's answer shoots back almost instantaneously.

"I have found an injured Decepticon, designation Doomshot, in ze wreck. I vould appreciate it if you vould take ze time to extract him."

"Are the others there?"

What? To my knowledge, the entire personnel count had gotten out after the crash. "I'm afraid I do not understand."

"Never mind. We'll come and get him. You'd best hurry up, our little buddy Zarak's on the verge of conniption."

"Acknowledged," I say, already moving on and closing the link. That question rattles around in my cranial unit like a processor-glitch.

 _Are the others there?_

No matter. I have my ways of finding out information. Sooner or later, I will know who these 'others' are.

Letting out half a dozen clicks, I turn a corner, ascend a ramp, and enter the room that once functioned as a combination medbay-slash-laboratory. My echolocation tells me that the floor is fallen in, pitted and rusted through to the lower deck, having been damaged by the crash and subsequently eaten almost completely away by the number of chemicals that had fallen out of their cabinets. The tiny medbay is propped up on a section of slightly intact floor on the other end of the room. There, above the counter, is a black heavy-duty case of surgical tools containing everything from laser scalpels to welding kits.

Undeterred by the lack of a floor, I transform, slipping my claws into tiny cracks in the cybertanium ceiling and bypassing the pit entirely. The lower level is a mess of acids, _which would no doubt be quite inconvenient to fall in,_ I think to myself as I get within reaching distance of the medbay.

Success! I manage to lift the case from the medical slab and subspace it, allowing myself a throaty chuckle for the fruits of my labor. But just as I rather awkwardly turn to leave, my wings striking the walls on either side of the room, a loud tearing noise violates my sensors and causes my vision to devolve into static. Even as I feel a weight drop on me and my vision clears, a searing pain pierces my neck strut and keeps burning. As I fall, I catch a glimpse of a Mini-Con with a drill for a hand, one he keeps stabbing into every surface he can reach. The drill's whine - and the ancient hero's battle-born laugh - fills my bestial audio receptors as red damage readouts flash over my field of vision.

With a mighty splash, we land into the cesspool of acid drowning the lower deck and I hear the sizzle of the stuff as it eats away at my armor. Neon green acid warnings join the red damage readouts on my HUD, but the Mini-Con seems not to mind and continues jamming that accursed drill into the chinks in my rapidly disintegrating armor.

"ENOUGH!" I roar as I convert into my upright form, somewhat painfully. I grab the blue Mini-Con by his raised arm as soon as I have the means to do so and hurl him into a rather large acid-eaten hull breach. It shatters, spilling sunlight into the room along with the sounds of weapons fire. A pity. Excellent combatants, these "Titan Masters" may have been at some point, but there's only so much that extensive combat skills can do for you when you're only about the size of a large human.

A quick diagnostic I take whilst exiting the _Remnant_ reveals major cosmetic damage, armor damage, and numerous, deep drill wounds that will hurt like the Pit for some time, but will heal. Eventually.

"Joy," I mutter, drawing my Vipor pistol. A piercing stab of pain shoots through my entire right side, but I do my best to ignore it. "Zis vill be a long night."

* * *

"You're out' a' yer gourd, mate," Quickmix whispered over the radio. "We cannae take Galvatron an' th' Twin Fists separate, much less t'gether."

"You're forgetting about Tailwhip, buddy," Landfill pointed out.

"Oh yea, my mistake. We cannae take Galvatron, th' Twin Fists, an' Tailwhip separate, much less t'gether-"

"Why do you doubt yourself so much, Quickmix?" Scoop asked, entirely calm.

"Lemme think about tha' fer a second . . . Maybe 'cos it's fraggin' Galvatron out there! 'Ave you gone stark ravin', sairr? No disrespect intended, a' course."

"My son, it's times like this I remember the verse from the Book: 'And lo, one determined warrior may slay even Unicron himself and chase away the dark, if his spark is truly with Primus.' You two mechs are nothing if not faithful and determined, and I can confirm with all the power vested in me as a Cleric of the Church that Primus stands behind us. We can defeat our foes with ease through His might! Now, let us strike, for Primus and for the universe!"

Energon coursed through his frame as Scoop rose to a kneel, rifle in hand, and fired with an aim that was true, catching the unprepared Decepticon Supreme Commander in the helm. As Galvatron stumbled and fell, a single prong broke from his crown, embedding itself in the ash-covered ground.

"Hoo-rah!" Landfill yelled, dashing out of the surrounding cornfield. A few expertly aimed cranks of his lever-action rifle sent Artfire and Tailwhip leaping for cover, even as Quickstep emerged from the wreck of the _Remnant_ carrying two thin, seemingly offline humanoid forms. During this exchange of fire, Lord Zarak barked a command to his two bodyguards, who loaded him into the SUV as tensions rose.

Artfire and Quickstep drew his weapon, a thermal pistol, from the Twin Fist's shared subspace, shuttered his optics, and concentrated. He could hear one of the Autobots at a firing position to the northwest, using a medium-caliber rifle with some skill, if the spacing of the shots and his comrades' curses were anything to go by. Good. Artfire and Quickstep appreciated adversaries who didn't just blast away at anything that moved, adversaries who actually knew how to use their weapons. Based on the acoustics, the Autobot was taking cover behind a collapsed wall and -

He smirked. Bingo. Without looking, the Fist raised the weapon over his left shoulder strut and squeezed the trigger once. The superheated projectile left the weapon, flew a short distance, and ricocheted off a length of exposed rebar, burying itself in the Autobot Scoop's exposed right side.

Scoop's shields failed and he felt plating buckle, energon lines briefly spray fluid before rapidly cauterizing, and a bullet stop just short of his digestive system. He screamed once and fell to the ground, hands automatically moving to apply pressure to the wound. His nanobots already began minimizing the damage, but the projectile was still burning inside of him and hurt like crazy. His weapon fell, and he was, however temporarily, out of the fight.

"Scoop! Scoop, a' you all right, lad?" Stripmine asked.

"Y-yes, my son, I'm fine," the Vicar replied, his voice drawn tight with pain. "We'll _all_ be fine. I'll see to it. You've recovered the target, I take it?"

"Affirmative, sairr, but Ah think Mindwipe jus' entered the room. Goin' dark."

Scoop nodded, groaning as he rolled back on his side. He'd rejoin the battle as soon as he could, but right now he needed a moment of rest.

Galvatron stood from where he had fallen as soon as Scoop's covering fire ceased, white-hot sparks jetting angrily from his head as his old gladiator programs booted up. His face contorted into a physically impossible scowl as he raised his P35C Kaon-made laser cannon, taking aim at a large dump truck Landfill was hiding behind. With barely a thought, the destructive power of the cannon was unleashed on the unfortunate inanimate truck, sending it flying over the Autobot's head in an orange and black fireball even despite its size. Galvatron relished the look of terror in Landfill's eyes as the Transport Specialist scrambled out of the cloud of smoke. He took aim once more, prepared to wipe the fleeing worm off the face of the universe, but a force from behind caused him to stumble and miss the shot. A new crater appeared in the severely damaged earth.

The mighty Decepticon Supreme Commander whirled around, fury in his optics, to see a red Gigantian frantically trying to load another shot into his integrated weapons system. Galvatron grinned, despite the constant, gnawing pain in his chest laying his powerful spark bare for the world to see. He recognized this pitiful waste. Quickmix, the famous chemist, had landed an impressive hit on him during the Gigantion campaign, and Galvatron felt he should repay that in full. The cannon turned on Quickmix, its whine filling the air with static. _It will be interesting to see how much he can take before his processor fries,_ Galvatron mused as he increased the output of his cannon to one million volts. This shot would undoubtedly take a lot of spark energy, but his spark would quickly replenish the lost power.

And it would be worth it to watch the yellow smoke issue from the chemist's faceplate as everything inside of him, all of his vital mechanics, his most intricate inner workings, his hopes and dreams, melted to nothingness.

The battlefield slowed to a near-stop. Galvatron noticed a rusty section of the hull cave outward, a blue Mini-Con having been thrown through it. Good. The more who witnessed this, the merrier. He let the cannon unleash its charge, the white beam arcing toward the chemist in a beautiful display of cleansing destruction.

Suddenly, another shot hit him in the arm - by the Unmaker, why were his shields failing him? Was old age finally catching up to him after all these years? - causing him to stumble. His cannon's beam shot upward, carving straight through the _Remnant_ and dividing it in half with a thunderous shriek of metal. The ship's own weight crushed itself further, and a fire started from within, growing to a blaze in mere moments. Ash rose from the ground in an enormous cloud, engulfing those nearest it and obscuring the cannon's intended target from Galvatron.

Fine, all he had to do was aim the cannon again, no regard for sight. He lanced the beam downward with some effort, just enough juice left to kill the Gigantian . . .

And the cannon ceased its rage, its charge dissipating entirely before it hit its target. A wave of fatigue crashed into Galvatron with the force of a tidal wave, driving him to his knees. He screamed in utter fury as his vision went to static, barely hearing the transmission over his communication systems:

"This is Lord Zarak! I command you to retreat! Repeat, retreat NOW! This is a direct order!"

"Now that's a command I can get behind!" Tailwhip coughed over the link as his overly loud rotors split the ash-filled air.

"Confirmed. I have retrieved ze surgical tools. Turn off your audio receptors now." Mindwipe's irritated voice came.

A nigh-unbearable screeching noise added to the clamor, and a resonant, thickly-accented voice overhead boomed, " **CEASE MOVING IMMEDIATELY.** "

The battlefield grew quieter, sounds of the Autobot's weapons ceasing immediately Galvatron paid it no heed as he blacked out, drained from his stolen kill.

* * *

Scoop fought with all of his might against the unholy force holding him back. Though the ash was thick, he had a grainy sightline to Galvatron, and he was still holding his pistol. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to not fire the weapon, but he persevered. He threw everything he had into pulling the trigger, rerouting systems including his own vision and praying to Primus he could destroy the Decepticon commander. Finally, with some Herculean effort, he squeezed the trigger a few inches, and it discharged a single bullet.

When his vision systems onlined again, Galvatron was gone, taken by the bat before he had a chance to fire the shot. He sighed, disappointed, and gazed skyward.

"If Primus says it so, then so shall it be," he recited softly, and managed to stand. The hypnotic effect had already passed, leaving Scoop feeling mildly violated by Mindwipe's profane power. His battle computer shut off, taking his adrenaline with it.

"Scoop to Landfill, Quickmix, and Stripmine. Status update," he said over his radio, worn out and his wound festering uncomfortably.

"I'm fine. Bit burnt around the edges, but fine." Landfill replied aloud, coughing. He walked out of the ash, looking not much the worse for wear. "Some time in the CR tank and I'll be ready for action again."

"Well, ah'm glad ya feel tha' way, mucker. Ye don't hae no longstandin' emotional damage a' all frae Galvatron pointin' a big honkin' cannon at ye, then? Tha's good," the Gigantian quipped, somewhat bitterly, over the comms system as he activated external lights, making him plainly visible in the dispersing cloud of ash.

"That's enough, Quickmix," Scoop said firmly. "Stripmine, are you all right?"

"'Course ah'm fine. Well, naethin' a nip ay Engex willnae help, a' any rate," Stripmine replied from Quickmix's hold.

"Very well. We should get moving before the workers get back, then. Getaway will be mad he missed out on all the fun, and it looks like I've a few reports to write as it is. Good job today, mechs," he grimaced as his wound sent a sharp wave of pain through his side, "good job. Transform and roll out."

The three construction vehicles left, leaving quite a scene behind them for the poor Nebulan workers to come back to.

And thus ended the _Remnant_ , its ruins clothed in fire and smoke.

* * *

"Did you even fire a shot, Artfire? Or were you scared of a few Autobytes?" Tailwhip shot as the convoy arrived in the city limits.

"I dealt more damage than you did, you insolent dipstick. How many rounds did you fire? A hundred, maybe? How many of those hit its target?" the Fist returned vengefully.

"For your information, _Artie,_ I hit the tan one twice. If I would have gotten a clearer shot, he'd be a doornail."

"Don't talk to me about clear shots. Targets won't just line up for you to kill them in the real world."

"They will if I ask Mindwipe to tell them to!" the Enforcer whined petulantly.

"Hey! That's enough. I don't need you two squabbling like children over my radio," Zarak yelled. Unbelievable. The mission was a complete failure. He had hoped it to be easy and quick, but those ridiculous Cybertronians just _had_ to show up and ruin his day. And of course, the road was absolutely jammed up too. It was only the interceptor that got them through the masses of disgusting sheep that were clogging up Zarak's beautiful infrastructure. Galvy was no help, because he was currently unconscious and being dragged back to the Capitol by the bat as far up as he could stand. Not even his favorite toy was working right today, and-

A roar resounded in the sky as a pink, alien-looking jet left the city at quite a high speed and quite a low velocity. There weren't any airports in Eastern Nebulon, and the only aviation area was underneath the Capitol. Zarak hadn't authorized any exit today other than this one, which would mean . . .

He got on the radio to the helicopter. "Who the flarg was that?"

"Oh, the jet? That was Misfire, and since he's too stupid to break out of your basement on his own, he's probably been let out by someone else who's actually smarter than him. Looks like you have a mutiny on your hands, 'Lord' Zarak," Tailwhip replied smugly.

Zarak cursed loudly. Could this day get any worse? He thrust his hand out in front of him as much as he was able, sending all the cars in front of the convoy into the air. Brutus jumped in his seat when the whole traffic jam suddenly rose into the sky and, without a second's hesitation, accelerated to 180 miles per hour. Zarak was thrown back in his seat as Brutus blasted through the now-blissfully empty freeway. Dark green blood leaked from the President's pointed nose as he concentrated on his task, setting the cars back on the road as soon as the SUV passed them. With a last grunt of effort, he began to crush the small red metal stone mounted on his wheelchair as he activated the radio.

"Galvatron! Bring my soldiers back NOW!"

And two thousand feet above the surface of Nebulos, Galvatron awoke screaming, a voracious, burning pain ravaging his chest. He writhed back and forth in agony, drawing his axe and madly stabbing its speartip at the Decepticon carrying him. The tip bit, causing Mindwipe to screech in pain and drop him. As the former Decepticon Supreme Commander was in freefall, he converted into his warship form, engine roaring and providing a deep compliment to his higher-pitched screams. He set his sights on the pink jet in the distance and made a direct course.

* * *

"You got all of them?" he says incredulously, sipping an expensive libation.

"Correct," Galvatron replies wearily, head tilted from the misshapen weight of his broken crown. It would seem that his spirit has been utterly broken by the skirmish with the Autobots and everything that accompanied it. Personally, I do not blame him. I'm frankly feeling about the same.

"And none of them are too badly injured?"

"Yes . . . Lord Zarak."

The Organic smiles. "Now that's what I like to hear. Congratulations. You are dismissed."

Galvatron declines his head a few inches and exits the Hive conference area, an orange spark flying in what appears to be defeat. The Organic watches him disappear into the shadows, then turns his wheelchair to me.

"Ah, the man of the hour, eh? I gotta say, nice job with that hypnotism thing back at the farm. Those meddlers had no idea what was happening to them. You got the tools, right?"

"Affirmative, Lord Zarak," I spit at the Organic, taking the case out of my subspace and showing it to him. "Zey are right here, prepped and ready for ze process."

"Absolutely splendid! Well, I'll allow you one day's rest and then you can get going on things. Is that sufficient?"

"Yes, Lord Zarak."

"Good. If you need anything, just let me know. Dismissed."

I turn to leave, but before I do, he says, "Oh, and Mindwipe?"

The words stop me dead in my tracks. I was certainly not expecting him to call me back, and definitely not by my name. I look back at him. "Yes, sir?"

He grins. It's a different grin from his usual greasy politician's smile. This one seems dangerous, full of wicked glee. It frightens me, because it's a smile I've seen on Galvatron's faceplate in one of his more lucid moments, as he executes an Autobot, tortures a Neutral, or drops a charge on a densely populated city.

"When you start the process . . . why don't you begin with these mutineers? Without anesthesia, of course. That ought to teach them an interesting lesson in respect."

My optics widen as I briefly lose my usual iron grip on my emotions. I glance upward at the mutineers, held on their knees by Zarak's power. Needlenose winces as I turn my gaze on him, Fangry growls, and Squeezeplay just stares defiantly at the Organic, optics unwavering. The others - Misfire, Skullsmasher, the Horrorcons, Horri-Bull, Stampede, Slay-Ride, Hollow, Harvest, Homicide, Dreadwind and Darkwing, Spinister and even Scourge with his Five Plagues - they all seem either indifferent or terrified of their incoming fate. They either return my look with pleading optics or regretful ones. A few even stare me down with judging miens.

But what can I do for them but make the process as quick as possible?

I nod at the Organic, the mask closing once more over my bitter hatred for his twisted mind.

"I shall do it, Lord Zarak."

As I turn again, I hear various reactions. Tears, bitter laughs, and sighs, but above all else, I hear one of my now-former comrades say:

"He is no true Decepticon."

FIN

* * *

 **Author's Note:** So how'd it go, my friends? Better than the original (if you've followed my stories for a while, that is)? Was it a "good" piece of prose? Only a few more chapters left to be touched up - and then I'll have something nice and brand-spanking new for you guys. ;)

Anyways, please leave reviews ~ because I can't fix my work if YOU don't tell me what's wrong with it! Thank you.

-The Doctor (Do)


	4. Violent Demonstration

**Author's Note:** Holy scrap. This is unquestionably the longest story I've ever written. This single chapter is literally a thousand words longer than the previous three chapters . . . COMBINED. In retrospect, I should probably have split it into two or three parts, but I didn't feel like drawing four different character profiles this early in the fic's history.

I DO NOT OWN the characters of the Knights Temporal. They belong in all respects to F-for-feasant-design on DeviantArt. I highly, highly suggest you check his stuff out. It's amazing in every sense of the word.

By the way, in this fic, Brainstorm is not remembering the events documented. He's playing his own private recording, but his memories don't contribute to this story.

One mechanometer is approximately equal to ten feet, or 3.04 m. One stellar cycle is the Cybertronian equivalent to a year. One decacycle is about a week give or take a few days.

Hope you enjoy it! The companion piece over at DeviantArt under Dr-Do is Autobot Goldfire. You can find him in the "Autobots" folder.

In other news, I'm going to be publishing these stories on DeviantArt too as soon as I can! I shall spread my tentacles of poor writing farther into the heart of the Interwebs. Please, leave reviews when you're finished reading! My thanks.

-The Doctor (Do)

* * *

Medical instruments blared as he worked furiously to stabilize the condition of the empty protoform. Though he had diverted its higher functions to secondary, tertiary, and in some cases quaternary locations, the industrial-grade spark just wouldn't take to the lifeless body in front of him. As always, ideas and thought processes bubbled continuously to the forefront of his mind. He had tried every one, each string of reasoning and logic bringing Brainstorm closer to sparking the hollowed-out suit, but none actually granting the protoform power.

He set his styli down in frustration. Brainstorm was a patient mech, but this operation really was grinding his gears. If he couldn't get some semblance of energy running through this thing, then how would Chromedome write the all-important coding into it that would allow the Nebulans to pilot it from the inside?

The Resistance had, surprisingly, agreed unanimously to provide support for the Autobots come the Pit or high water, but Duros had been the only one to volunteer to undergo the rigorous binary bonding process and, by extension, fighting alongside an Autobot partner. Brainstorm had a lot of work to do. Yet, this infuriating proto simply refused to cooperate. He'd be lucky if he could get this done in a stellar cycle.

Exhaling sharply, he sat delicately on the doctor's chair in the _Fortress Maximus's_ acceptable medbay and observed the protoform in depth. Really, all these made-to-order protos consisted of was wires, cables, and life-sustaining machinery encased in a slate-gray frame. Brainstorm had managed to scrape out a Nebulan-sized cavity in its chest, prepped for the insertion of a cockpit. He had also needed to add a ventilation system so the pilot wouldn't overheat, a state-of-the-art suspension system of his own design, and the evasive vital components box, stored rather messily underneath where the pilot's seat would be.

He sighed again. Therein lies the problem. Theoretically, the spark should be able to take, but the double-C crystal stubbornly wouldn't cooperate. An unbidden thought came to him, and though he tried to force it back down, it slipped through his mental firewalls.

 _How did I, an NCIHL graduate, end up staring at a protoform and trying to shove a cockpit - for an organic, no less - into it?_

The answer, of course, was simple. He found himself remembering events from one decacycle ago. A part of him wanted to keep - well, brainstorming - over the protoform, but most of him figured otherwise. Maybe a break was just what his processor needed.

 _After all,_ he thought, loading his private recording, _I've got all the time in the world._

* * *

It was a seasonally warm evening in Iacon's Central Spaceport that day. Despite the important launch taking off to the newly rediscovered colony of Caminus, the atmosphere had a laid-back, comfortable feeling. Goldfire had missed days like these during the War on Earth. Sure, the little blue planet was gorgeous in its own multitude of ways, but there was something about his home planet that just made him entirely content.

He gazed out the large floor-to-ceiling window right next to the small table he was sitting at. The sky was a light periwinkle blue, the occasional transport or Flier soaring through the sparse clouds of smoke. Every time Goldfire looked outside, he was amazed by how much it had cleared up in the short time since the war had ended. A few times during the conflict, he remembered, the sky had been so choked with thick black smoke that not even the sun had penetrated the miasma. He was unspeakably pleased with how quickly it had cleared away since not even two stellar cycles ago.

Now, the sunlight gleamed proudly off the shiny buildings and spires that stretched as far as even Goldfire's keen optics could see. Many spaceships landed and took off as he watched, their rapid ascents proving a fitting metaphor to the state of Cybertron since the terrible war had ceased. Chief among these ships was the _Fortress Maximus,_ about a hundred thousand mechatonnes of promising Cybertanium. Once a heavy-duty prison ship, it was currently being loaded with Energon, blank protoforms, and munitions enough to stabilize the newly rediscovered, energy-starved colony of Caminus on the outer rim of Cybertron's local sector. Goldfire could even see his Throttlebot brother, Wideload, helping to transport the goods even from this distance. His bright construction orange was visible even surrounded by all the other brightly-colored mechs and femmes milling about the loading bay.

Goldfire hummed idly to himself as he continued watching, the wide window yielding an excellent view of the spaceport down below. About half a breem later, his quiet reverie was interrupted by a waitress arriving with a cube of Energon.

"One mid-grade, extra petrol, topped with magnesium shavings, sir?" she asked, reading off a memo datapad.

"That's right. Thanks, sweetspark," Goldfire replied, taking the proffered glowing cube. The waitress nodded, then began to skate away with small wheels attached to her pedes, before stopping short.

"Oh my Primus. You're Bumblebee, aren't you?" she said, incredulity in her voice.

Goldfire smiled beneath his mouthplate. "Most people call me Goldfire these days, but yeah," he rapped on his electrum-plated armor, "In the dynametal."

"Holy scrap! Er, sorry," she said, cooling fans kicking in, "I'm just excited. My class is reading about the Great War, and your story is just so amazing and, and so tragic. You've been through so much and . . . Will you sign my datapad?"

The femme reached into her subspace and pulled out a new-looking datapad, handing it to Goldfire. The screen was displaying a title embossed in gold over an image of a war-torn cityscape. Goldfire recognized it with a jolt, for it was the skyline of Iacon shortly before the Ignition. He still heard the screams of the immolated victims that he failed to save during his very worst recharge projections.

Shaking the bad memory away, Goldfire signed the pad with a stylus that he pulled out of subspace. The title read _The Great War: An Unbiased Account._ He found himself approving of an unbiased narration of the war, and made a mental note to pick up a copy for himself when he saw that Soundwave of Kaon had written it.

Handing it back to the waitress, he said, "Here you go-"

"Lightbright. Primus . . . Thank you so much, sir," she gushed.

"Lightbright! I got two orders over here that need delivering!" an older-sounding voice ragged by millennia of cygar smoke barked.

"Sorry, Deepfryer! It's just that Bumblebee's here and-"

"Bumblebee? _The_ Bumblebee?" A frenetic-looking Beastformer stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Sweet! It's an honor, sir. Say, would you mind saying your motto for us quick?"

"C'mon, Fang, the poor mech just wants to have his Energon," a scrawny red Destroyer-class said from behind the counter, shooting Goldfire apologetic glances the whole time.

"It's cool, Contakt! It's only one sentence!"

Goldfire winced as the kid held up a personal communications device, a red light indicating it was ready to record. His thick tail swayed back and forth excitedly, making it impossible for the red mech to approach from behind to pull him back. Quite a large crowd had gathered around Goldfire's booth, causing him to feel closed in. Despite his centuries of practice, Goldfire's spark began to pulse erratically as other diners craned their necks to watch. He showed nothing outwardly, but he was on the verge of panic on the inside.

"Of course. 'To know others, you must know yourself-'"

"No, no," Fang said, pricking his lupinoid audio sensors in surprise. "The other one. Y'know, 'the least likely-'"

"Right. 'The least likely can be the most dangerous.'" Goldfire recited without inflection.

"Awesome! Thanks, 'Bee. Now I can add this to my collection!" Fang proclaimed.

The spaceport café erupted into applause and whistles.

"Amazing!"

"Nice!"

"Energon's on the house!"

Eventually, the crowd dispersed and the cheers died down, leaving Goldfire frankly wanting to crawl into a hole. He sipped his Energon, only to find that it had gotten cool. The air, once warm and comfortable, had turned oppressive.

A bulky red mech with a gigantic cannon on his back took the seat directly across from him a few seconds later. "Real smooth there, Goldie." he snarked in a quiet, young voice one wouldn't normally expect from someone of his size and heft.

"Thanks, Scattershot," Goldfire replied dryly, reaching out to shake the giant scientist's hand.

"It's been too long, little buddy!" Scattershot exclaimed, pumping his hand vigorously. "Where're the other boys?"

"Down below, loading the _Fortress Maximus._ Freeway's running the comedy circuit over in New Crystal City. Yours?"

"Same, actually. Although, we're working on the more technical aspects of the launch. Clearing the ship for takeoff, running diagnostics on the computers . . ."

"Good times," Goldfire noted, taking another sip of his lukewarm Energon.

"Yeah. I'm shaking your hand too long," Scattershot remarked, releasing the Director from his enthusiastic grip. "Seriously, though, we should get together sometime. We went down to Earth to visit ol' Pops a couple cycles ago, and hoo boy," he splayed his fingers, "those Dinobots can fraggin' _party."_

Goldfire chuckled. "How are things on Earth, anyway?"

Scattershot's demeanor suddenly took a turn for the worse. "Well, it's certainly _interesting_ . . . Aliens - besides us, obviously - contacted the United Nations, told 'em they'd be willing to open trade and tourism if Earth would do the same. That was quite the deal, let me tell you. The humans have already built these massive spaceports, no small bit being attributed to us, of course. It wasn't easy. Decepticon Rebels, VENOM, Cobra, they're all jumping over it like flies on rotten meat. The UN's asked pretty much all of us stationed there to take up extra security jobs for the launches and construction sites."

"That's not right. We still need to crew our own settlements too." Goldfire remarked.

"Tell me about it. But it's the UN, what are you gonna do?" Scattershot called another waitress over and ordered a mid-grade. When she had left, he continued. "Come to think of it, there haven't been many Rebel attacks recently. Maybe they gave up?"

"Or they're warming up for something big," the Director intoned darkly.

"C'mon, Goldie, they don't have the bearings. These days, there's a heavily armed security guard on every street corner, especially here in Iacon. If the Rebels haven't given up already, I'm pretty positive they will soon. Let's talk about something else, shall we?"

And so they did, telling stories about their most recent escapades, laughing and joking. After a while, the conversation turned once more to the _Fortress Maximus_ and Caminus.

"-and then there's Caminus, right? How many millennia have they been stranded out there on a cold rock, just slowly starving? Good thing they've contacted us when they did, or there might not have been any colony for us to save."

Abruptly, something clicked in Goldfire's head. Perhaps it was the mid-grade sharpening his senses, perhaps it was a previously unobserved epiphany, but it made him sit up straight, whatever it was.

"Scattershot, I've been thinking."

"Did it hurt?" Scattershot jested, placing down his own half-empty cube.

"Very funny. This spaceport . . . it's a pretty high-value target. I mean, enormous supply ship taking off for a long-lost colony? If I was a Rebel, I'd certainly choose here to attack as a 'display of Decepticon might' or whatever they use as an excuse. Seems rather obvious, now that I think about it."

"Are ya kidding, Goldie? The Rebels won't attack Iacon. It's literally the center of our wonderful, warmongering race's planet. Did you know that Iacon is the city approximately 82 percent of high-ranking, retired Autobot officers live in now, not including the near seven million other citizens our city boasts? It's too big a risk for them to come here. Like I said, no bearings," he made an odd sweeping-down gesture with his right arm, "no attack. Iacon's safe."

The scientist leaned back on his stool and adjusted his sharp, light-blue visor. He seemed pleased with himself, the quirky smirk the femmes went crazy for playing across his face. Goldfire considered his answer for a few moments, only to find that Scattershot had a point.

"Hey, you're the scientist, not me," the Director conceded, picking up his refilled cube. "You have an excellent point. Anyways, so Chase told me this funny story-"

Suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the cafeteria, shattering the beautiful window even from this distance and causing the hanging light fixtures to sway.

Goldfire searched outside for the source of the explosion, which turned out to be about a megamile away. From this distance, he could just make out the dark shapes of Warrior classes illuminated by the flames charging into the spaceport, firing weapons at the fleeing personnel.

"Rebels?" Scattershot asked urgently, drawing his acid pellet rifle from subspace.

"Rebels," Goldfire confirmed as he summoned his own EDK Stinger.

Scattershot cursed - for a scholarly type, he could curse like a Wrecker, possibly due to his Dinobot upbringing - and growled. "I hate fragging Decepticons. They're like rust spots - ugly and can pop up anywhere. Let's put a stop to this." With that, he jumped out the ruined window, transformed into his giant starfighter mode, and rocketed away with a **BOOM**.

"Well said," Goldfire muttered as he himself vaulted without a second's hesitation out the tall window, and again into battle.

* * *

On the other end of the spaceport, well into West Iacon, Ultra Magnus kicked down the portal to his oldest friend's housing unit, his ion rifle powered up and his shoulder-mounted missile racks actively searching for hostiles. Though the entryway was dark at the moment, the light lancing through the unit's high windows provided more than ample light for the Commander to navigate. The rifle snapped up, moving with Magnus's optics as he swept the room for the intruder while simultaneously moving to aid the Prime.

"This is Ultra Magnus to the Temporal Knights. Be ready to move," he commed as he passed through Optimus Prime's well-furnished parlor. The elite bodyguards sent various messages of affirmation back, and Magnus approached the Autobot leader's bedchamber. He rammed his thick shoulder into the portal once, twice, before it collapsed inward under his bulk. There, kneeling on the floor next to the king-sized recharge slab with one hand over his broad chestplate, was the Prime.

As Ultra Magnus moved swiftly to assist his friend, he was dismayed to see that his lights had dimmed to below half power and his venting was staggered, erratic even. The City Commander took a knee by Optimus Prime, cupping his faceplates in his large white hand and gently forcing Prime to look at him.

"What happened, sir? Are you injured?" Magnus inquired forcefully. Even though he was genuinely concerned for Optimus, he just couldn't deal with beating around the bush right now.

"Ahh . . . Ultra Magnus," Optimus said hazily, his optics glassy. "I apologize for the alarm I must have caused you . . . I've had an exceptionally strong vision."

"A vision," Ultra Magnus repeated, subspacing his rifle. "Very well. Ultra Magnus to the Temporal Knights. False alarm. Repeat, false alarm. Fall back."

"No!" Prime shouted, his rare truly commanding tone causing even the mighty Commander to pause. "Please . . . no. If this vision is to be believed, I fear we may need the manpower." He struggled to his pedes as his various lights came back online. Magnus helped him up, then followed him as he made headway for his elegant study.

"Would you like a drink?" Optimus asked, crossing over to a beverage cabinet. "Here, I have a particularly good case of Engex ready for consumption, if that is what you desire."

"No, thank you," Magnus replied curtly, crossing his arms over his wide chest. "I want to know about this vision of yours."

"Of course," Optimus said, pouring himself a cube of low-grade. When it was filled, he sat down in the comfortable chair behind his handsome carbon-steel desk. Magnus remained standing. "You know that I have been experiencing visions ever since the Matrix was opened, yes?"

"It is my business to know these things, sir."

"That it is. For the most part, they have been rather benign, most taking the form of religious verses or unclear images of my predecessor's monumental exploits." He paused, taking a sip of the low-grade. "But this one was _very_ different."

"Different how?" Magnus noted a quantifiable level of fear behind his friend's facemask and was surprised. Anything that could disquiet Optimus Prime certainly scared him.

"This vision was of a terrible war about to begin, Dion."

Ultra Magnus's jaw dropped slightly at Optimus's use of his real name. His shock was only doubled as he watched the Autobot leader's mouthplate retract, something Prime only did to consume fuel.

Or when he wanted to convey a matter of great importance.

"A great battle here, in Iacon, started it. I did not see who was victorious, but there were numerous casualties on both sides."

"Were the Decepticon Rebels on the battlefield?" Magnus asked.

"I . . . I believe so, yes. You must increase security around the city-state," Optimus said soberly.

"Duly noted. Continue."

"It was horrible, old friend. Thousands, perhaps millions, were killed in the crossfire during this war. Women and children weren't even safe . . . Blood ran like a river through the streets . . ."

"Do you mean Energon, sir?" Magnus corrected, puzzled. It wasn't like Prime to make an error like that.

"No, Dion. I mean blood. There was Energon here and there, make no mistake, but organic's blood flowed freely."

Ultra Magnus's fists clenched. "Galvatron. His cruelty doesn't know any bounds."

"Galvatron is not the one who caused this slaughter. Granted, he had no small part to play, however, he did not issue those orders. A new conqueror, a monstrous and evil madman, overthrew him and established control over the Decepticons. He is the monster responsible for this holocaust." Optimus closed his mouthplate again with a _whirr_. "It cannot be allowed to pass. You and those under your command must tighten security in Iacon immediately. I shall assist you by making a visit to the Enforcer headquarters. We have no time to waste."

The Autobot leader rose from his seat, bringing him to eye level with Ultra Magnus.

"I'll get on it right now," the Commander started to say, but before he could finish, three serene tones came over his comms system, oddly chilling in their plaintively. It was the transmit signal of the Iacon Emergency Broadcast.

"Attention all citizens of the Greater Iacon City-state!" A voice on the verge of panic replaced the quiet tones. "This is Chase of Helex! The Iacon Central Spaceport is under attack by a group of Decepticon Rebels estimated to be 150 strong, led by former Decepticon Supreme Commander Galvatron. Enforcers are requesting support from all able-bodied mechs and femmes. Officials suggest barricading all portals and windows, establishing a defensive perimeter in housing units . . ."

Optimus gasped, receiving the same transmission Magnus was. "Ultra Magnus . . . it's happening."

* * *

"You sure this'll work, Brainstorm?" Hot Rod asked skeptically.

"Obviously not! That's what experimentation's for!"

There they were, on a deserted concourse just outside of the Central Spaceport. Brainstorm, one of Hot Rod's old war buddies, had called the Cavalier and his mentor, Kup, here for an urgent experiment the excitable engineer just _had_ to see completed. When the two had arrived, they had found the Witwicky family, very close allies with the Autobots since First Terran Contact many years ago, and Brainstorm sporting a huge grin displayed in his expressive yellow-orange optics. The Engineer had set up a crazy-looking racecourse down the runway, with ramps, hairpin turns, and nigh-impossible winding paths the whole way. When Kup had asked what, exactly, the experiment was, Brainstorm had responded with a simple, "You'll see."

Now, Hot Rod sat in his vehicle mode, engine purring as he waited for the engineer to give further instructions. The Witwickys, except for Spike, who was currently inside Hot Rod's driver's compartment, stood over by Kup as the elderly veteran lit up a fresh, high-quality cy-gar. Blurr, the infamously fast data courier and Hot Rod's best friend from early in their shared campaigns, sat next to him in vehicle mode as well, exterior weapons primed and ready.

"The rules are simple, Blurr, Roddy, Spike;" Brainstorm began, checking one last thing off of his field notepad. "I want you to -" he made a thrusting-forward gesture with his free hand, "race down this runway at your respective top speeds, never crossing the path, and accurately shooting every. Last. One. of the Rebel holograms that will spawn shortly. I call them Rebelgrams. Any road, do not turn back in any way, and do not let up on your throttles at any time during the race. Savvy?"

"'Course," Hot Rod said, priming his own vehicular weaponry.

"You'llbeeatingmydust,champ," Blurr shot back at his trademark whirlwind speed.

"Just try not to liquefy me, Hot Rod," Spike warned from inside the Cavalier's driver compartment, buckling his seatbelt.

"Hold up, Roddy," Brainstorm interrupted. "You're the independent variable here. Spike'll be doing the shooting for you. Spike, got your pistol?"

"Always," Spike answered, drawing the weapon in question.

"Good, you'll need it. Focus on the driving, Hot Rod. Mr. Targetmaster here'll work on the shooty." He slapped Hot Rod's side moderately hard and returned to his post next to the track, holding up a starter's pistol with his pinky digit out.

"Drivers ready? Set, go!"

The crack of the pistol mixed perfectly with Blurr's sonic boom as he broke the sound barrier, appearing an astromile down the track and leaving a trail of fire in his wake before Hot Rod could even begin to accelerate. The Cavalier, however, was not paying attention to the Courier, instead putting everything he had into focusing on the treacherous path. While Spike shot at the holograms, every single bolt hitting its mark, Hot Rod ignored the discharges, slaloming through a particularly difficult passage. He hit a ramp and sailed into the air, landing perfectly with a slight jolt and instantly hanging a left turn.

Spike reloaded the pistol with a professional ease, borne from his stint in NEST when he was merely starting college, as Hot Rod rocketed through a straightaway. About twenty holograms appeared spread across both sides, so Spike switched the space-age pistol to full automatic, leaned bodily out Hot Rod's driver side window, and let loose a torrent of fire that cut them down where they stood. He dove back inside before the ample wind could blow him out the window, and reloaded again just in time for the Minefield.

Still smoking from Blurr's attempt, the weak explosives set up in this wide-open space wouldn't injure the Autobots, but they would scratch Hot Rod's glossy paint job something fierce. Holograms popped up around the area in seemingly random locations as he entered the gauntlet.

Two explosives went off, causing Hot Rod to evade accordingly. Spike had to adjust his aim to take down one of the four holograms and then was nearly thrown out as Hot Rod swerved again.

 _Pew, pew,_ went his pistol as two other holograms flickered out of existence. The fourth Rebelgram remained elusive, but then Spike caught a flash of green in Hot Rod's rearview mirror. They had missed it! He stuck his head and shoulders back out the mirror, but he didn't have a clear shot to the Rebelgram without first hitting Hot Rod's sensitive spoiler. And the Cavalier was nearing the finish line . . .

A crazy idea occurred to Spike. "Hot Rod, open your passenger's side door!" he shouted over the roar of the wind.

"Are you glitched? No! Your dad will literally kill me!" the Cavalier yelled back.

"Just do it, unless you want Blurr to win!"

"Fine! It's your funeral!" Hot Rod complied.

Spike lunged for the door as it swung open, putting an iron grip on the hidden exterior handle. He held on with a vengeance, aiming his pistol as best as he could. Still an extraordinarily difficult shot. The wind made even Hot Rod's hydraulic-controlled door sway, and the Autobot's frequent dodging didn't help matters. Then, as Hot Rod exited the stretch and crossed the finish line, Spike squeezed off a shot, hitting the Rebelgram square in the chest.

Spike hopped nimbly off Hot Rod's door as the Cavalier rolled quickly to a stop beside the waiting Blurr, blowing off the muzzle of his pistol and holstering the still-smoking energy weapon in its place.

"Guessweknowwhowonthatrace," Blurr cracked as Hot Rod transformed.

"Ah, blow it out your tailpipe, motor-mouth."

"You'rejustjealous."

"A little bit," the Cavalier admitted, smiling along with his best friend.

Brainstorm arrived in his teal aircraft form, transforming in midair and using his leg-mounted rocket boosters to descend the rest of the way to the ground. "Llllladies and gentlebots, the results are in! Blurr, you finished in point eight seconds and defeated forty-eight out of fifty Rebelgrams! That minefield's a killer, isn't it?"

"IwouldhavegottenabetterscoreifIhadbeenallowedtotransform," the Autobot in question observed.

"Undoubtedly, my fast-talking friend, which is why I included that rule! Regardless, Hot Rod and Spike finished a little bit slower than Blurr, with a time of just under a minute and a half."

"Booyah!Inyourface,Roddy!"

Brainstorm didn't retract his faceplate, but his optics betrayed him again, showing what was plainly a wry smile. "And a total of fifty out of fifty Rebelgrams. Ergo, the winner is Hot Rod and Spike Witwicky!" He devolved into a coughing fit even as Blurr began expressing his disbelief at a rapid-fire pace. "Sorry, I can't use that announcer's voice anymore. It's too big for me," Brainstorm apologized as Spike walked off to greet his family, who had just arrived in Kup's truck form. "Do you see, guys? This is absolute proof of my theory!"

"Which one?" Hot Rod jested, causing the Engineer's optics to narrow.

"Very funny. The one regarding a potential advantage to the Enforcers if they were teamed with a human partner! Binary bonding might work even better, but it'd be pretty hard . . . I'll need to run more tests. Good thing I rented this concourse for the day, huh?"

"Good thing," Hot Rod repeated, only half listening as he watched Spike reunite with his family. It was sweet, he thought, how much the Witwickys loved each other. Even as Carly chewed her husband out for "that brainless stunt," he could tell she wasn't really mad. A few times in the past, she had been genuinely angry at Hot Rod himself, and it was a horrifying occurrence. Not many things scared the Cavalier - it was kind of in the job description - but a ticked-off Carolyn Witwicky ranked in the top five.

Moreover, it simply warmed Hot Rod's spark to see their young son Daniel wrapped around his father's broad shoulders, all but vibrating excitedly. Kup, now in his robot form, smiled warmly down at them as he puffed contentedly on his cy-gar, seemingly remembering good times long gone.

"-and I'm going to have to call in some more guinea pigs - er, favors - if you don't mind. Why don't you three take a two-vorn break, then meet back here at four for another round of testing?"

"Deal," Hot Rod said, snapping back to attention. "Blurr, Kup, you want to go to Visages? Drinks are on me."

"Sure. Raceyouthere," Blurr agreed good-naturedly, then was gone with a _whoosh._

"You go, kid. I gotta give the Witwickys a ride back to base, then I'll catch up." Kup said as he threw his cy-gar into his subspace and transformed Hopefully it would extinguish before it could hit one of the veterans' cleaning rags.

"Aw, thanks, Kup," Spike said as he held the door open for his wife. "After you, m'lady."

Carly smirked. "Nice try, sharpshooter. I'm still mad at you. Come on, Danny."

"Can we see the Decagon on the way back, Mom?" the boy excitedly asked his mother.

"If you're good, I'm sure Kup can make a detour. Now get i-"

Suddenly, a distant explosion broke the tranquility, making everyone fall silent. It sounded as if it had emanated from the Central Spaceport.

Kup revved his antique engine, yielding a determined and powerful growl. "That ain't good, no two ways about it. Hot Rod, get over there an' see what's going on. I'll drop the Witwickys off somewhere safe and meet ya at Gate B. If ya don't send a comm over by the time I'm there, I'll assume the worst an' come in with guns blazin'. Git movin'."

"Yes, sir!" Hot Rod said, snapping off a quick salute and peeling out of the concourse as soon as his tires bit.

"Witwickys say good luck, kid. Watch yerself out there," Kup transmitted over the radio.

"Thanks, you guys, but I don't need luck. I got skill," the Cavalier said back, reciting an old Earth boast as he charged fearlessly back into battle. As he entered the nearest gate, three tones came over his personal commlink.

The transmit signal for the Iacon Emergency Broadcast.

"Attention all citizens of the Greater Iacon City-state! This is Chase of Helex! The Iacon Central Spaceport is under attack by a group of Decepticon Rebels estimated to be 150 strong, led by former Decepticon Supreme Commander Galvatron! Enforcers are requesting support from all able-bodied mechs and femmes. Officials suggest . . ."

* * *

"Hold your positions!" Goldfire yelled, unleashing a blast of DC electricity from his EDK Stinger. Purposely forcing the energy down, he carved a burning line into the ground directly in front of the Rebels' ranks. The message was clear: _Stay back._ His weapon smoked profusely as he removed the scalding-hot charge, heedless of it burning his servo.

Over by a pillar of pipes used for maintenance of drone aircraft, Wideload, rose from cover and launched a single missile from his rocket launcher. The projectile sailed through the air, finding its mark on a medium-sized fuel tank in the midst of the Rebel's forces. Needless to say, it exploded, throwing flames and Rebels into the air.

 _And Wideload gets no points for avoiding collateral damage,_ Chase said over the Throttlebots's bond.

 _It's them or us. Who cares if something blows up?_

 _That's enough, both of you._ Goldfire didn't have time for this bickering. An energy bolt whizzed over his right doorwing, causing him to tuck the sensitive appendage flush against his body. "Scattershot, what's the 20 on Computron?" he commed to his ally.

"Lightspeed and Afterburner are at the combination point, Nosecone is . . . en route, and Strafe and I are just a tad - GAH! - _busy._ A little help would be nice!"

"Copy that." Goldfire glanced up, where he saw the Technobot leader, along with his brother Strafe, locked in a dogfight with several Decepticons. Alarmingly, Goldfire found he recognized at least two from the final stages of the Great War. The notorious Scourge, spearhead of Galvatron's fleet, was one of them, staying a short distance away from the core of the aerial battle and laying down barrages of heavy fire upon the Technobots.

"Cloudraker, where are you?" the Espionage Director barked over the Autobot Clone's shared comm system.

"Oh, me? Getting shot at, why?" he replied.

"I'm not interested in your sarcasm! Scattershot and Strafe need help! See if you can give them support. Please. Then Computron'll take over, and you'll have time to vent. OK?"

There was silence from Cloudraker's end for a while. Goldfire could pick him out in the sky, weaving through a small group of aerial Rebels of his own - an eye-searing pink jet-car, a twin-cockpit fighter jet, and a dark blue spacefighter. They seemed to be giving Cloudraker a Pit of a hard time but hadn't yet landed a hit on the crimson Clone. _Come on, buddy. You can do this,_ he silently pleaded.

"Fine," the Sky Fighter said with a sigh as he executed an interesting vertical barrel-roll maneuver and momentarily broke free of the Rebels dogging him. He put on a full burn towards the scrap taking place between the Technobots and the Rebel fliers, acrobatically dodging the shots slung at him by his pursuers, but Goldfire could see he wasn't going to make it without help.

"Everyone who's capable of flight, help the Technobots out! We'll cover you!" he ordered over the general comm system as he activated his own back-mounted thrusters, a second generation of the same tech the Decepticons had used in the War on Earth, and jetted into the air. From here, he saw every single face on the battlefield. There weren't many casualties on either side yet, but the Rebels had superior firepower and a larger amount of troops. Goldfire's command included the Throttlebots, the imperiled Technobots, and roughly twenty scared civilians of both races who hadn't seen a fight this intense in years. He had always been good at math, and he deduced that this wouldn't turn out too well for his side unless the tables were turned, and quick.

He aimed his photon pistol at the Rebel responsible for the most suppressing fire that he could see, a large shiny black Titan build with uncomfortable-looking spikes jutting out from random places on his frame and guns hanging off of almost every surface, and shot him about five times in the head before the Destroyer noticed him. A scowl crossed the Rebel's jagged mouth as his shoulder-mounted cannons swiveled to point at the levitating Security Director.

 _Wideload, stand up and start shooting, now please,_ Goldfire told his fellow Throttlebot while he braced for the Rebel's payload. Other Rebels had noticed him too and had begun to shoot him, but their photon-rifle rounds barely tickled with his experimental electrum armor.

The cannons, on the other hand, would leave a mark.

 _I won't ask, sir,_ Wideload said as he stood up and unloaded his machine gun directly in front of his position. The heavy rounds cut through the Rebel's now-deficit shields and through his armor, causing him to fall on his knees.

"Now's your chance, Fliers!" Goldfire said as the flight-incapable citizens began to add their own firepower into the mix. With the distraction, the Fliers were able to take to the skies and assist the Technobots and Cloudraker. Two jet-types streaked straight for the rapidly-approaching Cloudraker and the Rebels following him, dissuading the Decepticons with a number of missiles launched practically into their cockpits. The three Decepticon fliers, their shields now completely eradicated and themselves quite possibly injured, began a hasty retreat, pursuers turned pursued.

Now unbothered, Cloudraker fired a barrage of thermal rounds into the midst of the Decepticons who were keeping Scattershot and Strafe busy. The red shells impacted the Rebels, bursting into small flames as soon as they hit and dissipating the cloud of Decepticons. But Scourge was still active, laying down seemingly endless suppressive purple bolts upon the aerial Technobots. At any moment, Cloudraker's thermal rounds would extinguish . . .

"Searchlight, light 'em up!" Goldfire instructed on general comms, so those on his side would have time to shield their sensitive optics.

"I thought you'd never ask," the Surveillance agent said in his silky-smooth voice from his position atop the loading bay command tower. "Cover your eyes."

The Security Director clapped a hand over his own optics as the command tower exploded in blinding white light. Screams came from the Rebel's ranks as their sight was suddenly taken away, but those under Goldfire's command were spared the hassle of rebooting their optics. It lasted for about two seconds before fatigue seeped over Searchlight's part of the Throttlebot bond, and the light began to quickly fade.

But Searchlight was not the kind of person to quit because he was tired. The Throttlebots all knew at that moment that his Mini-Con partner, Backwind, had converted to his Gatling mode and was currently being fired at the disoriented Rebel Fliers.

"I've bought you a handful of seconds at the most. Hurry." Searchlight gasped, speaking to Scattershot and Strafe. Goldfire sent a burst of appreciation to his teammate even as the Technobot leader spoke up with the command they had all been waiting for.

"My thanks!" he transmitted to all involved. Then, using his physical voice, "Technobots, combine to form-"

The five individual Technobots' digital presences abruptly faded and were soon replaced by one powerful entity.

"-COMPUTRON!" the gestalt's robotic-sounding voice echoed across the loading bay.

Panic immediately spread through the Decepticon ranks. Their shots became more and more erratic as time passed, allowing the citizens to come mostly out of cover, yielding much more accurate fire. Cloudraker and the other Fliers were doing a good job holding off the aerial Rebels, avoiding the implacable Sweep Commander's continuous barrage of air-to-air AA rounds.

Finally, Computron reached a conclusion, announcing his arrival with a ground-to-air incendiary missile barrage. The yellow-and-orange fire lanced through the air, striking any Rebel Fliers remaining and causing their fuselages to erupt in flames. Even the mighty Scourge retreated when his troops fled, wreathed in fire himself.

Suddenly, the grounded Rebels realized they no longer had their air support. Some ran, but others brave or determined enough stayed, shooting Computron with everything they had as he drew his massive maroon rifle. With only two excellently placed shots, the extra firepower that the Rebel front lines had - two old laser turrets left over from the war - was erased sans casualties. Then, Computron stopped. The bay fell silent, the citizens ceasing their attack as well. Goldfire shut off his thrusters and dropped back to earth, landing with the practiced ease of an expert. Gunfire and explosions sounded in the distance, resounding across the whole Spaceport.

"I announce this to all Rebels currently online. We are open to a peaceful resolution." Computron said, projecting his overly robotic voice over the bay. "You are not the only Decepticons here today. There are those who have been fighting on this side of this particular conflict as well. Some have died in the duration of this senseless battle, as have people on your side. Please, friends. End this pointless suffering and see us as the Cybertronians - the people - that we are, not the faceless oppressors you believe us to be. Abandon this hatred and instead turn to peaceful harmony."

"And what, Autobot? What then? Get prosecuted by a skewed High Council for the exact same crimes they allow Wreckers or Dinobots to walk free for? Be looked at for the rest of your life with raw hatred because you chose to wear the 'wrong' sigil all those years ago? No thanks. I'd rather be a Rebel." a strained voice shouted back.

"You are incorrect. The High Courts are fair, and several Decepticons hold seats on the council. Probability of fair judgment if average Decepticon Rebel surrenders immediately: 93.014%." Computron replied. His emotionless voice sounded slightly tighter now, but still, he maintained respectful politeness.

A Decepticon stood, one hand held above his head. The other was clasped firmly on a gunshot wound in his midsection. He winced once, but then activated a faceplate that masked his expression. "I'd counter that. We will never be safe, never be welcomed, because we've done horrible things for a cause that we believed in. Does that sound familiar to you?"

Those gathered gave in to impromptu introspection, indeed remembering the extreme measures they themselves had taken for their own means. On this battlefield, no one was truly innocent.

The nameless Decepticon smiled a thin, drawn smile underneath his faceplate. "Good," he said, breaking the citizens' thoughts. "And one more thing. The longer you sit here, being all righteous and scrap, the longer our reinforcements have to arrive."

Another Rebel stood with a rocket launcher, its deadly projectile launching with a _fsss._ Like some predatory bird, it sailed through the air and detonated exactly on Computron's cranial unit, engulfing his entire torso in an orange fireball.

The loading bay erupted once more in gunfire as the great ball dissipated. Computron simply stood in his place for a while, visor cracked and thick plating charred, as his components formulated a solution.

"I apologize," the gestalt finally said, removing the giant cannon from his back. "I wish we could have found a better outcome." Two bow arms sprang out from the top and bottom, each as tall as an average Cybertronian, as Computron pulled a plunger at the back out of its housing. "I'm afraid I blame myself."

He let the plunger go, firing a high-explosive shell that struck dead center in the few remaining Decepticons, vaporizing most of them. The Throttlebot Rollbar picked off the rest.

 _War never changes,_ Goldfire thought uneasily to himself as he watched Rollbar double-tap a horribly burned and screaming Rebel.

* * *

Searchlight was on the verge of passing out.

His lights drained him more than he let on every time he used them, and they didn't even cause any long-standing damage to the enemy. But, when he looked down from his high perch at the battlefield free of Decepticons, he felt . . . pride in what his assistance had wrought. It didn't please him to see the scores of deactivated people, but they were criminals, and in a way, the universe was just that little bit safer because of him.

"Don't give up on me yet, Searchlight," his Mini-Con ordered. "We've still got trouble on the horizon. Look to the south."

"'Kay," Searchlight turned his optics up to their maximum input and gazed toward the Spaceport border. His naked eyesight wasn't as flawless as Goldfire's, but the surveillance systems integrated into his visor and helm allowed him to see a greater distance than even the Throttlebot commander could.

"Do you see them?" Backwind asked urgently.

"No. Who's they?"

"Don't make me Powerlinx with you, boy. Right between those two launch towers - the red ones, see? There's a whole scrapton of Rebels coming. Looks like a couple Sweeps too."

Searchlight squinted, and suddenly he caught a glimpse of Decepticon Black Violet through the spires. "Slag," he muttered sleepily.

"Darn right, slag," Backwind snapped. "Comm Little Brother, quick. He's got a better chance of listening to you than me."

"Don't say that Backwind, it's self-deprecating," he muttered to his partner, already half asleep. Then to the Throttlebot leader, "Goldfire."

"Yeah?" the mech in question "answered" without delay.

"Don't make the 'good job, team' speech yet," Searchlight said wearily. "It appears our Decepticon friend wasn't bluffing. There's a battalion of Rebels approaching from the south."

"How many?" Goldfire asked, dreading the answer. Searchlight could feel his apprehension reflected in all of the other Throttlebots' minds as well, save Freeway.

"From the looks of things, about thirty Rebels and around . . . twenty Sweeps, possibly including Scourge, Cyclonus, and Primus knows who else. With our numbers, we're in trouble."

"What's their ETA?"

"I'd say less than a breem, sir. Allied AA guns seem to be inactive, possibly commandeered by the enemy. Should I flash them? Er, with my lights, I mean?" Searchlight said, mentally slapping himself in the face for letting his professional air drop. He figured it was his tiredness, and prepared to apologize, but Goldfire would have none of it.

In a "voice" just barely holding back laughter, but also with a taste of resignation, Goldfire replied, "No, Searchlight. You've done enough. Just don't get shot up there. Rest."

"Really?" he gasped, stunned at the answer. They needed him. Without him, would his friends - his brothers - even survive?

"We'll do fine, bud. Sleep short, though. We'll need ya once we get 'em running," Rollbar butted in. Searchlight, in his fatigue, had allowed his emotions to leak over the bond, something he normally avoided doing.

He chuckled at Rollbar's macho-sounding voice. "Heh. Of course, sirs. I'll just lie down for a little recharge then . . ."

Glancing over at his best friend, Searchlight said, "Will you watch me, Backwind?"

"That's my job, sir." the Mini-Con affirmed.

"Thank you." With those two words, Searchlight lowered himself to the ground, crossed his legs, and went happily into emergency recharge.

* * *

Searchlight's signal blinked offline, but Goldfire could still feel his presence through the Throttlebot bond. A battallion of Rebels . . . not good. He had to warn the citizens as soon as possible.

"Mechs and femmes, I have bad news. My surveillance agent has spotted about fifteen Rebels and a small fleet of Sweeps headed our way," he said, turning his voicebox up to its max volume to reach those who had taken position just outside of the _Fortress Maximus's_ cargo hold. He felt bad lying to them, but he had discovered in his line of work that people tended to act more calmly when the situation sounded better initially. "They'll be here in a little less than a breem. I suggest you restock and reinforce your positions. If you're injured, have someone tend your wound as best as possible. Good luck."

Like a bomb had gone off, the citizens scattered to gather supplies before the next wave arrived.

"Computron, what's your reading of the situation?" Goldfire asked the gestalt as he checked his weapons. He was running low on pistol ammo and only had one Stinger charge left. Normally, he would have carried more ammunition on his person, but since the war ended, there was hardly a point. After his arms were spent, he'd have to switch to his old Neutron Assault Rifle, a trusty weapon he had used nearly every day during the Great War. He had stopped using it a while back, for there was no place for a weapon of war in a time of peace. When that was out, it'd be looting corpses or breaking open one of the munition crates scattered about the loading bay.

"Conclusion reached," Computron finally stated. "The original course of action was to remain combined, because I have higher endurance, firepower, and strength than the individual Technobots, in addition to a more accurate and strategic mind. However, my lack of speed, especially when in battle, is an issue. The briefing informed me of the Sweeps, which is a subgroup of Decepticons known for their fast and unpredictable attacks, moreover, I have been slightly damaged during the initial fight. If I were to fall in the midst of battle, my components would be vulnerable to gunfire and physical attacks due to decombination shock, leaving you as the acting field commander without six Autobots rather than just one. Lastly, manpower is needed if we are to survive the coming onslaught, something I am unable to provide by myself. Conclusion: Decombination is the best outcome."

With that, Computron fell back into his component parts, which transformed into the Technobots.

"That was fun. Playtime's over now," Scattershot said grimly, loading his acid-pellet rifle.

"I just wanna gank some 'Cons," the Technobot Gunner, Afterburner, growled, his shoulder-mounted turbines spinning to full power.

"Don't be racist," Lightspeed admonished his brother.

"Sorry. I just wanna gank some _Rebels._ "

"Heads up! Here they come!" an olive green Decepticon shouted over the comms system. Indeed, the din of over-ground travel could plainly be heard, along with a much more sinister noise. The trademark ambient sound of Sweeps overcame all other noises, a disturbing drone not unlike discordant, pained moans. Some said it was just their cancerous engines operating as any undead Cybertronian's would, while more superstitious folk swore on their lives that it was actually the cries of those converted by the Sweep Commander as their personalities, bodies, and sparks were slowly stripped away, becoming nothing but another face in Scourge's dark army.

"This ain't gonna be easy," Cloudraker's brother, Fastlane, said over the comms.

"Let 'em come! We'll wreck 'em!" a more enthusiastic voice came, a security guard named Hardhead. He apparently harbored a love for battle that was almost frightening. No one else shared his enthusiasm.

 **SCREECH!** The first Rebel, a Decepticon Black Violet hatchback, raced around the far corner, by the spacecraft runway exit that the _Fortress Maximus_ sat on. He was quickly shot to pieces by the nearest citizens, but more followed him. Three transformed in unison, landing on their knees and letting loose with their Photon Burst Rifles. Goldfire dropped one with two expertly aimed shots from his pistol, and another fell to gunfire, but even more arrived, a bulky column of tanks flanking the scouts. Powerful cannons powered up as the rest of the force flowed in behind them. Sweeps filled the skies, their moans peaking to a scream as they entered their attack phases.

But Goldfire felt oddly at ease. His only regrets were that Freeway, Searchlight, and Backwind weren't in sight. He could still feel them - Searchlight having a pleasant recharge projection, Backwind fiercely determined to keep watch over his partner, and Freeway blissfully unaware of the plight his brothers were experiencing, most likely figuring they were simply having a really tough day at work. Goldfire, determined to see his brothers once more, drew on Freeway's good humor and contentedness, funneling it into his sharp eye and true trigger finger. The music playing over the loading bay speakers, an old AC/DC number from Earth, served a fitting soundtrack to fight to.

Wait . . . AC/DC?

An Iaconian war cry split the gunfire-riddled air and the loading bay complex's blast doors exploded, expelling a crimson blur that raced straight into the Decepticon ranks. Though the bodies were too dense for Goldfire to see anything, the number of Rebels that were being thrown in the air suggested that the citizens' situation was looking up.

"Hot Rod!" several citizens exclaimed.

"That's my name, don't wear it out," the Cavalier boasted over general comm as two other Rebels went flying. "I didn't come alone, though."

A fusillade of firepower sounded from the smoking blast doors, cutting down any unfortunate Rebels that happened to be in the way and accentuated by the appearance of an electric-blue twin-rotor helicopter that took to the skies and began firing into the cloud of writhing Sweeps. Besides him, Goldfire noticed that the Technobot leader had also transformed into his static cannon form and was filling the sky with acidic waterbombs. The moaning of the Sweeps seemed to change into a higher-pitched shriek as they were forced upward.

Thirteen of the new Autobot arrivals, all bulky, heavily-armored mechs, joined the red Cavalier in close combat. From the moment they entered the fray, the tank problem was pretty much solved. Despite their size, they attacked with ferocity and strength, showing unparalleled skill with handheld melee weapons even against the Rebels armed with firearms. They were accompanied by primitive familiars, and Goldfire knew exactly who they were. These mechs were the Temporal Knights, the bodyguards of none other than Optimus Prime himself. Which meant . . .

Yes! There he was, striding out of the loading bay with as much ease as wading through a field of wiregrass. Optimus Prime, red armor gleaming in the sunlight, emerged with his oversized plasma cannon, blasting away at the Rebels with precise discharges. Between the Throttlebots, the Temporal Knights, the Technobots, Hot Rod's squad, and the assorted citizens, the loading bay was quickly covered in graying Rebel bodies. More Decepticons were leaking through, however, and there was still an extreme threat on the battlefield.

"Hello, Goldfire, Scattershot," the Prime said as he strafed across their position. "I don't have time to chat, I'm afraid. Ultra Magnus, take the ship's loading area," he said to his second-in-command. "I have a call to make."

* * *

Blaster was a very busy mech today.

Though he longed to pick up his electro-scrambler rifle and give his fellows a hand over in the Spaceport, here he was stuck in Central Iacon, facilitating so many important communication webs that he had dumped everything else on his poor cassettes. Calls - not radio transmissions, _calls_ from physical communication devices - flowed in at a staggering rate. He pinged active-duty soldiers across the city-state, instructed his counterpart at the Iacon Enforcer Precinct to scramble everyone, and generally did his best to help.

 _Pride leader, you've a call,_ one of his cassettes unhelpfully informed him over their spark-bond.

 _I got about thirty-eight calls at the moment, Steeljaw,_ Blaster said back.

 _Sure, but this one is from Optimus Prime. He says it is important._

Blaster scoffed, told the two people he was currently busy with to keep their channels open, and patched the Autobot Leader through.

"Greetings, Blaster. It's been a while."

"Yeah, it has. What can I do for ya, sir?" the Communications mech said urgently.

"I have reason to believe that the Rebels are concentrating their attack on the _Fortress Maximus,_ and I am not sure how long we can hold them back. Please, send-"

"Reinforcements, yeah, way ahead o' ya, Prime. How d'ya know they're focusing on the _FortMax_?"

"Logic, Blaster. The _Fortress_ is the largest and most well-armed ship at port today. Not only this, but it is taking off to a previously undiscovered colony, which would be the perfect display of Decepticon might to our friends over on Caminus. Even though we would be able to load and launch another ship within a week, the delay would prove the Autobots to be the weaker of the two races active on Cybertron. Not only that, but if the Rebels were to commandeer the _Fortress_ for their own purposes, the destruction wrought by its power would be catastrophic. This seems the most logical motive for this attack."

Blaster pulled up a real-time map of the Central Spaceport to verify Prime's hunch and noticed with a jolt that most of the fighting was indeed concentrated around the _FortMax._

"Slag, you're right. Lucky for you, the ACTS is already en route ta the Spaceport. I'll have to call an' tell Renegade about this, an' then I'll see if I can scrounge up some old dropships from the war. Stave off the 'Cons - sorry, Rebels, - 'til they arrive, an' you'll be clear."

"Thank you, Blaster. Optimus Prime out."

The connection terminated, leaving Blaster with forty urgent messages to tend to. He thought briefly about the distressed Iaconians waiting for support out there and exhaled, sincerely hoping they'd make it out OK. Unfortunately, people had already died, and the death toll would just continue to rise before the cycle was out.

The Communicator steeled himself and answered the next three calls.

* * *

Punch was always a sharp mech, apt at noticing things other people didn't. So when he caught a glimpse of a cyberhawk - a species extinct for millions of years even before the Rebirth began - glide down behind the launch complex, he was naturally curious. His curiosity was piqued further as he watched a teal-and-white Rebel inch along the very same complex, disappearing through a portal without even attempting to engage the opposing faction, something Rebels weren't known to do. This was obviously something worth investigating.

He pinged the nearby Detective Nightbeat, a reinforcement from the downtown precinct, with a comm request, which he accepted.

"Frag it, Punch, why can't you use your voice for once?" the Detective snapped, irked as usual.

"Did you see that?" the Doublespy asked, encrypting his words with a specialized code. His comm systems were fully independent of any radio tower, reducing the risk of someone like the former Decepticon Communications Officer Soundwave hacking his transmissions. Because of this, it required quite a bit of concentration to send and receive messages, but Punch was a professional.

"What, Shady McUptosomething slipping around that corner? The extinct avian floating about a battlefield? Yeah, I noticed it. Why?"

"I'm going to investigate. Probably something dangerous."

"Right. I'll stay here. Prime'll need all the help he's going to get."

"They won't miss me much. Watch the fort while I'm gone."

"'Kay."

Punch backed off, firing a volley of explosives from his shoulder-mounted mortar launcher one more time for effect, and ducked behind a shipping crate, transforming into his sports car mode and racing off after his quarry.

Moments later, Punch entered the building through a jammed-open cargo portal, making sure to be as quiet as possible. He listened carefully, heard the sound of a low-quality portal splintering somewhere to his left, and proceeded towards it with his silenced pistol drawn. There it was, hanging open on one hinge with its locks mostly pulled out of the doorframe. He could hear voices behind it as he put his back to the cybersteel paneling and listened.

"Wingspan, you failed. This is a maintenance closet."

"On the contrary, brother dear. This 'maintenance closet,' as you so eloquently and intelligently put it, is, in actuality, the passageway to the pulsing spark of the Greater Iacon city-state, including the top . . . hmm, four rings, the road to Kalis, half of Praxus, part of Prothihex, and all of Iacon. You see, this spaceport-"

"OK, ok, whatever. Just open the door already. I've got to sluice out my waste pipe."

"We don't have time, Pounce, you'll have to hold it. Ah, got it. After you."

There were several _ka-chunk_ noises of locks disengaging, the _whoosh_ of a portal opening, and then movement in the closet. Punch waited for a ten-count, then followed, dimming his cerulean optics and sticking to the shadows. Another door stood open inside the maintenance closet which appeared to have a Level 4 Iaconian security lock. An impressive feat for this Decepticon, hacking the heavy-duty latch in such short a time. Even Punch, who was a trained professional, had a substantial amount of difficulty with Level 4 locks using nothing but a basic pick set. Granted, perhaps the Decepticon had used a mechanical safecracker, but the Doublespy saw no visible tampering on the exterior of the lock. These two meant business.

Inside the sparsely-furnished room, the nearly-identical mechs navigated around a small table. One of them walked straight to the portal on the other side of the room, while the other hung back by an industrial cabinet containing hexagonal single-use isolation pods. To the left of the cabinet, there was a bank of computers underneath three wide windows gazing down into some degree of subterranean chamber. Other than that, the room was unremarkable.

The Rebel by the portal stood as it hissed open, admitting them into the same chamber that the windows looked into. Satisfied with his work, he removed two basic lockpicks - slag, he really _was_ good - and crossed the threshold.

"Uh, Wingspan? Don't we need these pods? Y'know, because of the electricity?" the mech still in the room shouted after his partner.

"Don't be silly, Pounce. The Plasma Energy Chamber is entirely contained. It sits in a vault that was last tested a decacycle ago and found to be entirely sound. We're perfectly safe, as long as we don't prematurely disconnect the rods or shoot the vault or something ridiculous like that."

"Fine, but it's your fault if we get fried."

The Rebels departed entirely, allowing the simple bulkhead to hang open behind them. Punch crept to the computer bank, peering out the windows at the room below. Great golden statues stood magnanimously on each wall of the chamber, all four looking at the cubical structure in the middle. A catwalk descended from the room he was in to the chamber floor, about five mechanometers give or take a few. Wingspan gave a monologue to his partner, who seemed to be scarcely listening.

"Sad, really. So much history down here one can smell it in the air, and the Autobots use it as a glorified generator."

"All I wanna do is get out of here. It smells funny. Like old datafiles and Autobot stuffiness."

"Hush, you. Drink this in. This is the Plasma Energy Chamber. You may know it as the Crucible . . . the very place where Prima, the First Transformer, was forged. This room . . . this is where we as a species originated from. Fitting, isn't it? That we're about to use the original hot spot, the reason we exist, to reestablish-"

"Shut your beak already and help me fill the tubes," Pounce snapped, sharing none of his partner's rapture. Punch, on the other hand, was intrigued. If Wingspan was right - and that seemed likely - then this could be one of the most important missions he had ever undertaken. He didn't know what the Rebels were planning, he knew without a shadow of a doubt it had to be bad. It was time for him to make his appearance.

* * *

Counterpunch stood, his wings folding out above his head as his helm tilted back to reveal his darkly handsome features. Armor plating slid closer to his lithe Flier frame as his trusty proton cannon swung down from his shoulder, attaching itself firmly to his arm. Lastly, his legs and pedes shifted subtly so his pede digits faced forward once more. He activated his visor and faceplate, completely obscuring and emotion that could escape him. Projecting a collected air, he entered the Plasma Energy Chamber.

As Counterpunch descended the catwalk with silent tread, he absently checked the overall layout of the chamber. Environmental hazards, light sources, shadows, and the blind spots of his prey. There seemed to be an exit at the far end of the room, so he bookmarked that too.

Amusingly, the Clones weren't even aware of his presence, focusing studiously on filling five unassuming HAZMAT rods with the energy of the PEV. When they removed the second rod, Counterpunch noticed that the room grew slightly darker. Interesting, he'd have to memorize that for his debrief. The irritatingly pleasant Optimus Prime would likely want to know every detail down to the exact make and model of the energy rods.

Truth be told, however, he didn't think he'd need to memorize anything. The Clones were tough in battle, but Counterpunch knew their every weakness. This would be simplicity itself.

"Hey guys," he announced, being deliberately unprofessional and finding it amusing how much Pounce, who was watching his brother as he worked, jumped and whirled around, bayonet out.

"Whoa. Is that any way to treat a fellow Rebel?" the Doublespy remarked, raising his servos and flashing his Decepticon sigil as obtrusively as was physically possible.

"Counterpunch," the grounded Clone spat. "What do you want?"

"To help out. Galvatron sent me to check up on you two. Need a hand?"

"We don't need a fraggin' babysitter, spy! Leave us alone!"

Counterpunch lowered his cranial unit, staring the Infiltrator down with his bloodred optics. "Language."

 _He's so close. A quick strike and it'd be over._

"Point that ridiculous thing somewhere else," the Doublespy said, flicking the point of Pounce's cybertanium blade. _Like up your brother's feathery aft,_ he wanted to add, but wouldn't let himself. "I came to ask if you needed a transport."

"We've got this, _thanks_ ," Wingspan sneered vindictively as he removed the third container from the Vault. "We can handle fetch duty without the help of a filthy double agent."

Counterpunch's visor darkened several shades as he dreamt of the beautiful torture he could exhibit on these pathetic simpletons if he had the chance. Then, in a voice like a barely restrained arctic wind, he said, "Fine. _You_ deal with my Autobot counterpart then." He backed up, utilizing his leg-mounted rocket boosters to ascend to the top of the staircase in an instant. "I've heard he's nearby," he fumed, retreating with an air of aloofness. Curse him. Two throat strikes and he could have ended the threat, once and for-

* * *

"Real nearby," Punch said as he onlined, wings folding down to form his chestplates and helm tilting back. His mortar launcher - always an unwieldy and uncomfortable weapon - came to rest over his left shoulder as he drew his silenced pistol. He knew enough now to inform Optimus, but he had to secure the Plasma Energy Chamber first.

The Doublespy snuck to the railing on the catwalk, aiming his pistol at Pounce's head. This was bound to be a difficult shot with naught but the iron sights on his gun to guide by, but Punch had been training with this firearm for nearly his entire life. He squeezed the trigger thrice.

"OW! My face!" the grounded Clone screamed, falling to the ground, as Punch vaulted over the railing. He grunted once due to impact, then shot three times at the flying one. Two rounds struck the airborne Clone square in his thickly armored chest, but the third flew over Wingspan's head as he did something Punch hadn't accounted for.

Instead of wheeling behind the Vault like Punch had expected, Wingspan made a dive for his brother, pulling his disoriented counterpart behind the Vault first. The Doublespy took cover behind a support column and counted his ammo. Two shots left, then he'd have to reload. One for each Clone.

"Stupid Autobot!" Wingspan chided, his high voice echoing in the vaulted chamber. "If you hit the Vault or one of these canisters, the resulting energy discharge will kill us all!"

"Luckily for all of us, I don't miss. Much." Punch yelled back. He turned around the column and began to move, upgraded Special Ops pedes making virtually no noise on the metal ground. Pistol pointed rigidly forward, he ignored the steadily filling energy rods and whirled around the corner of the Vault, only to find empty air where the Clones should have been.

His prox sensors abruptly went off, causing him to whip around and leap backward as a nitrotiger's claws mercilessly sliced the space where he had been a nanosecond ago. There, Pounce stood in his primitive alternate mode, staring Punch down with primal defiance.

"Keep the Autoscum busy, Pounce!" the other Clone wheedled, leaping down from the ornately decorated top of the PEV. "I must remove the energy rod, and then I shall join you!"

An animalistic snarl was all Punch had to go by before the Clone erupted into a flurry of slashes, each coming progressively closer to turning his combat armor to ribbons.

 _Maybe you should have invested in advanced blade armor,_ he thought to himself as a particularly strong swipe nicked his paint. Then, Pounce's attacks suddenly stopped and he leaped back a few mechanometers, blazing red optics never leaving Punch's. The Doublespy knew as soon as the Rebel's haunches tensed what was about to happen.

"Slag!" he shouted almost involuntarily, tucking into a forward roll as Pounce exercised his namesake, springing forth with claws outstretched. The Infiltrator missed by a hair and skidded for a few feet, claws sparking and leaving gashes in the ground. Punch didn't waste a second and got to his pedes, sprinting towards the nitrotiger and throwing a . . . well, punch at its angular head. The strike cracked an optic and made Pounce yowl in pain, allowing Punch to wind up for another.

But then, a pair of sharp talons dug into the Doublespy's raised arm.

"Brother! No!" Wingspan screeched, lifting Punch up to a respectable height and dropping him. Sparks flew when he hit the ground and he felt one of his joints crack, sending a hot wave of pain through his torso as his nanobots began to tend to the wound. Still, Punch stood.

"Great, there's two of you now. Even match, eh?" he joked, disguising the pain in his right shoulder strut.

"You've just made a colossal mistake, Autobot," Wingspan said, somehow managing to sneer even lacking the corresponding facial features.

Pounce hit the ground running, the cracked optic not even slowing him down a micron. Punch dodged the first massive paw, then rolled over the next, low strike, reciprocating Pounce's attack with a vicious backhand to the Clone's cranial unit. He turned just in time to register a flash of talons descending on his helm and ducked as the predatory bird rushed harmlessly over him. The cyberhawk now recovering from his high-speed attack, Punch hit Pounce with yet another left hook.

Then things went wrong. Pounce unexpectedly transformed, causing the Spy's follow-up to miss completely. The Infiltrator grabbed Punch's arm underneath his wounded shoulder and lifted him up, taking hold of the inside of his left thigh as well. A fresh wave of pain spread from the injured joint and Punch tried to twist free, but he was forcefully removed from Pounce's grip by the other Clone, who rocketed around the Chamber, securely holding Punch in his deceptively strong, spindly talons.

He slammed the Doublespy into a support column, a resounding _crunch_ causing damage readouts to flare across Punch's HUD. Energon leaked from his mouth as Wingspan soared in for another hit, another sickening _crack_ as his helm struck the column hard.

 _Good job, Punch. You can't even handle two idiots from Data Processing,_ he thought angrily to himself as he slipped offline.

* * *

"Are you OK, Pounce?" Wingspan asked as he transformed, rushing to his brother's aid.

"My beast mode head's pounded to scrap, an' I got a friggin' headache the size of Trypticon, but I'll live," he replied. "Let's put a bullet in Punch's processor and get outta this stuffy chamber."

"No time, no time! Galvatron just contacted me, said to hurry up. The generals are becoming impatient. Help me with these," the Data Clerk said, preparing to remove the fifth and final energy rod.

Pounce growled angrily but complied, shooting glares at the offline spy the whole time. He took three of the five rods, clamping two underneath his arm.

"Are you ready yet?" he asked impatiently.

"Of course. We must move swiftly," Wingspan responded as he sprinted ahead, not even looking back at his twin now that he was assured that he was all right.

The Infiltrator followed him to the exit, head pounding painfully with every step. He'd definitely need a pain chip when all of this was over.

* * *

Optimus Prime was reloading his ion rifle when it happened. Thankfully, he was behind cover at the time, or he would most likely not be alive any longer. For the fourth or fifth time, naturally.

As he ejected the spent clip, his mind was all of a sudden not there anymore.

He stood in a magnificent chamber with a vaulted ceiling that disappeared into the darkness. There was no light in the chamber at all, save an amazingly bright, blue spot in the center of the room.

 _Rise, my creation._ A nebulous voice echoed throughout the chamber, making Optimus' own spark rhythm sync with its basso profundo, so strong it made his own baritone sound like the chirps of a glitch-mouse. _Rise, if you would . . ._

While Optimus watched, a weak, synthetic slime-covered arm reached out of the hot-spot, shaking as it grew from sparkling to young adult in a matter of seconds. The arm, taking on shades of crimson and pure white, dragged the rest of its body into the chamber.

 _Greetings, my beautiful child._ Optimus realized that the voice was literally emanating from the Matrix of Leadership nestled snugly in his chest, and opened his chest armor to see the ancient artifact glowing a strong blue; pulsing with the voice's every word. _Do you know your name?_

The newly created robot - a beautifully, lovingly crafted mech - worked his flawless square jaw for a while before responding, as if he were getting a feel for how to speak.

"I . . . I think I am called Prima."

Contentment and pride, but most prevalent, _love_ , flowed through the Matrix like a benevolent tidal wave, nearly driving Optimus to his knees with the sheer force. _That is correct, my spark. We shall do incredible things together, you and I . . ._

The scene began a sort of fast forward, jumping through years like seconds. The sun rose and fell outside, and the chamber took on more and more eloquence. The images were too fast for Optimus to observe clearly, but he did see thirteen figures flashing around the chamber, including Prima. He felt cities rise and depart from Cybertron entirely. Though the fourteen bots left, he still felt them up until a point. Optimus caught glimpses of his predecessors and even his successors, shadowy figures kneeling at the hotspot, which was protected by a Vault. He himself had made the same pilgrimage many years ago when he was first chosen to lead.

All of a sudden, the chamber turned cold and barren, the statues broken and spread across the room. The pale light of Luna 1 cast an eerie sheen over the destroyed statues and rubble-strewn floor. Where the hot spot once glowed proudly, there was only a dark, empty vault.

Optimus's visions of the Primes faded, replaced by a single disturbing robot, resembling a normal mech with all of his alloy flayed off, revealing his slate-grey protoform. The entity possessed wickedly oversized and pointed dental plates, topped off with wide, staring optics that bore an uncanny resemblance to organic eyes. Its entire body was covered with a shiny fluid similar to what had covered Prima at his birth. Despite the entity's frightening appearance, however, Optimus felt nothing but benevolence radiating from it.

 ** _One of the duties entrusted to thee is the protection and maintenance of the First Hot Spot, that which spawned Prima . . . Thou must hasten thither, for th' spot is in danger of fading and must be returned to its cradle . . . Make haste, Optimus Prime._**

Optimus held his ion rifle's next clip in his shaking hand. Gunfire whizzed through the air, chipping away at the _Fortress Maximus'_ slate-colored hull.

"Hold lines, mechs!" Ultra Magnus shouted, rising to a knee beside Optimus and firing half a dozen rockets from his shoulder-mounted missile pods. He followed up with a short burst of automatic fire from his own ion rifle and ducked back behind cover before the Rebels regained their senses.

"Ultra Magnus, I fear this fight is a diversion!" Optimus said to his friend over the din of battle.

"Somehow I highly doubt that. There's nothing else in this sector that could possibly be of use to the Rebels," the Commander hissed back as he again shot around his cover.

The Autobot Leader vented sharply, then sent a small recording of the Entity to Magnus via a commlink. "The Plasma Energy Chamber," he emphasized.

Magnus' optics momentarily went blank as he played back the recording, then he set his jaw. "You may have a point there."

"I must check on the Vault, Ultra Magnus. I hope I am not correct, but the Matrix has never lied to me before."

"Yes, but how? The nearest entrance is across a field of angry Rebels, Optimus. You'll never make it alone without getting shot to death. The numbers are against us."

Optimus nodded with grim determination. "I am willing to take whatever punishment necessary if it means the Vault will be safe."

"Wait!" Magnus yelled before Prime stood to make the run. "At least allow us to use the Rust Dragon Maneuver. We'll take some of the heat off of you."

"Magnus, I cannot ask you or the other Knights to get injured simply protecting me. It isn't right that my life should be more important than any other being's," he replied, the very thought causing him to feel sick.

"Pit, Prime! It's our job to take the shots meant for the Matrix-bearer!" Magnus yelled in a rare moment of frustration. "Our very functions are to protect you at all costs! I'm not as pious a mech as, say, Jackknife, but I'm positive that when Primus himself specifically says to protect the Prime with your life, he means it!" He calmed down in an instant, then spoke in his familiar level tone. "The longer we sit here arguing, the more danger the Vault is in. I've informed the Knights. You make the move, and we'll follow you."

Optimus shuttered his optics resentfully and waited, folding his mind into the Matrix. The world took an ethereal quality as he listened to the bullets pinging off the cybertanium hull of the _Fortress Maximus,_ waiting for a break in the fusillade. The Knights offered words of encouragement over their private comm.

"Steel your resolve, Optimus Prime. All is as Primus sees fit." Overhang assured him.

"I've waited my whole life for this," Anvil said excitedly.

"I am prepared, Prime."

Optimus's spark gave one short pulse.

 _Now._

He vaulted the crate of datapads he had been hiding behind, transforming just before he hit the ground. His trailer came out of subspace, hitching without a jolt as soon as his tires bit the earth.

"Primus be praised!" Roughshod crowed as he took position by Optimus's left side, simultaneously sending his draconic familiar to distract the Rebels as the rest of the Temporal Knights formed a barrier around the Autobot Leader.

Had he been in robot form, Optimus would have cringed at the sound of bullets ricocheting off Roughshod's body. The Knight, sensing his distaste, attempted to hearten him. "Relax, Optimus Prime. My shields are still operating at 80% capacity."

"That does not make this act right," Optimus replied.

"We are more than halfway there already," Compound, the Night Warrior, reported airily.

"The Rebels have rockets!" came the single-sentence exclamation of another Knight as a high-explosive missile slammed into the left flank.

"Fraggit! Ultra Magnus, permission to smite those Rocket Trooper's collective faces?" Trashtalk asked angrily.

"Granted. As soon as we pass this unloading bay, break. All others close ranks behind the Prime." the Knight Commander replied to various "affirmatives".

The blue-and-white garbage truck broke behind the unloading office, barreling toward the Rebels while shouting things like, "Cowards! Face me head-on like the mechs you wish to be!" accompanied by various colorful death threats. Jackknife, Smokestack, and Anvil dutifully closed ranks behind Optimus while the others came to the fore, smashing through the southwest wall of the terminal loading complex and transforming to their heavily-armored robot forms.

Optimus Prime himself stood as his Knights checked both directions for hostiles, powerfully striding to the unassuming maintenance hatch. Already had it been kicked open, hanging on one hinge with its locks demolished. He narrowed his optics and drew his ion rifle, signaling the Knights to fall behind him as he entered the similarly sabotaged RESTRICTED USE portal.

"No!" Prime gasped when he laid eyes on the scene that was waiting for him. The Vault was dark and empty, the ancient hot spot extinguished. He took the long set of stairs three at a time and rushed to the cold structure in the center of the chamber.

The Matrix pulsed within his chest, giving him a message that he could somehow understand, despite it only consisting of soft whirrs and percussions. The energy of the hot spot had been siphoned into canisters and taken elsewhere, but it could be revitalized if it was returned in time. Currently, the Greater Iacon city-state was running exclusively on reserve power and would run out in a short time if the hot spot was not restored.

"Prime, I've found an injured Autobot," Quench's voice cut into Prime's silent examination.

"Who is it?" he replied, stepping away from the empty Vault.

"I believe his designation is Punch."

"Can you bring him back online?" Optimus asked as he knelt by the unconscious Doublespy's side. Punch was one of his best operatives, skilled at getting behind enemy lines and gleaning information about future attacks - an essential resource in a series of conflicts against terrorists. Besides, seconds counted at the moment, and the longer Optimus and the Knights dallied, the further away the Plasma Energy of the hot spot got from its cradle . . .

"Obviously. With the power of Primus, all things are possible," Quench said with absolute certainty, rubbing his hands together. The holy knight put one on his chestplate and slipped the other underneath his armor plating. He lifted his head to the heavens, seemingly muttering a prayer under his breath. Before Prime could catch what he was saying, Quench quickly snapped his head downward, optics emitting a strong white light. Punch's body was hit with the same light, and he woke as the light faded.

"Ahh . . . ow . . ."

"Punch, are you all right?" Optimus asked.

"He is suffering from a cracked spinal array, a major data disconnection point, a strained suspension system, and a number of cosmetic dents and hull breaches." the Knight's resident medical technician noted helpfully.

"I'm . . . I'm fine," Punch groaned.

"This is but a temporary miracle. If Punch is not taken to a medical facility soon, his disconnection point will go viral and spread to the rest of his processor, either killing him or turning him into a vegetable."

"No! No, that can't happen. Help me up, please."

Quench hooked his arm under Punch's and lifted him up, offering his own body as support. His feline familiar, Pummel, slinked around his legs and hovered near the injured Spy.

"There were two of them, Optimus. They were Clones, Pounce, and Wingspan. I tried to take them on, secure the Vault, but I failed. I'm sorry, sir."

"You don't need to apologize, Punch. The Knights and I will take care of this." Prime assured the Spy.

"Ultra Magnus and I will take Punch to the nearest functional medical center. By your leave, Prime?" Quench said.

"Granted," the Autobot Leader replied. "Everyone else, follow me. We will return the Plasma Energy to the Vault, as is our duties. Highway, which way did the Rebels use?"

"The back one," the Cyberwolf Knight replied with certainty, communicating with his own Primitive familiar, Muzzleflash. "Trail's still fresh. If we hurry, we could probably catch them before they get wherever they're going."

Prime thanked Highway and ran for the back exit, the others save Quench and Magnus following close behind. The path to the surface emptied atop an unindustrialized crest overlooking the battle-torn Spaceport.

 _Where have they gone?_ he asked the Matrix, trusting in the artifact's power. No sooner had the words left his processor than a flash of blue alerted him to one random spot, between two launch towers. At first, the area looked unremarkable, but as Optimus turned his optical arrays up to maximum power, he discerned the violet wings of an extinct cyberhawk gleam in the sun. Conspicuous in its own right, but the trademark glow of two energy rods against the avian's underside proved beyond a doubt that this was one of the Rebels they were looking for.

"I see our thief," he said, transforming and revving his powerful engine. "Let us pay him a visit, shall we?"

* * *

Lord Galvatron gazed out at the Iaconian Central Spaceport, savoring every last explosion and scream of pain. In many ways, it reminded the Supreme Decepticon Commander of his gladiator days. The carnage was also a fitting vengeance against the Autobots, the weak-willed Decepticons who had refused to accept their birthrights and gave up without a fight, the abhorrent Neutrals, and even the traitorous Rebels under his command, those who plotted against him when they thought he didn't know of their treachery.

 _Who is laughing now, Cyclonus? Your men are being cut down in droves,_ he thought happily to himself.

He had commanded those loyal to him to concentrate their attack on the Autobot prison ship. Of course, he couldn't care less about the heavily-armored waste of Cybertanium. It would be a bonus if his troops managed to siege the ship, but that was not his objective. As the puny Earthlings always said, there were bigger fish to fry.

"Lord Galvatron, sir, with all due respect, how much longer must we wait here? Having this many high-ranking officers in such a prominent location for so long presents a tactical hazard that we can't afford to make," Onslaught, the Combaticon leader, impatiently pointed out.

"Patience. Everything is proceeding as planned." Onslaught grumbled a little at Galvatron's response but remained respectfully still.

Where were they? The Clones should have been back by now. Galvatron's head sparked a few times as he squinted into the endless gray-and-burnt-orange structures of the vast spaceport, looking for any glimpse of the flying one's purple wingspan.

And there it was! The bright light of the sun at its highest point in the sky off royal purple feathers. A crooked grin distorted Galvatron's faceplates as he sparked happily. The smile was gone in an instant before the Supreme Leader turned, as any emotion in his field was seen as a weakness.

"Gentlemechs, I believe the rods have arrived!" he announced. Behind him, one could see the Clones beginning to scale the slope, navigating with ease the ruins of Iacon's first launch pad.

"Finally! It's been too long!" Motormaster bellowed in his fathomless deep voice, rising from his leaning position on one of the tower halves. The Stunticon Supreme Commander was eager to re-enter the battle, anyone could see it. The massive turquoise mech at his side, Snaptrap, said nothing, but Galvatron could read from his body language that he was too.

Two Primitives, Hun-Grr and Razorclaw, rose from their unidentifiable meal bearing a vague resemblance to a grayed frame and resting spot, respectively. The latter mech had been laying down on a collapsed crossbeam since before Galvatron had even arrived.

"Know . . . that all good things succumb to those who wait," Razorclaw yawned as he stretched the kinks out of his frame.

"Lord Galvatron," the flying Clone said triumphantly as he transformed, passing the rods into his robot mode hands and kneeling before his leader, "we have retrieved the Plasma Energy Rods as you commanded us."

"It certainly took you long enough," Galvatron snarled, snatching up the two held by Wingspan. He gave the giant white-and-green mech at his side a nod, prompting him to roughly take the other three the Clone's brother was presenting.

"Beg pardon, milord. We encountered some resistance and-"

"You are the resistance! I expect each and every one of my men to fulfill my orders to the letter, _exactly when I want them to be fulfilled._ " Galvatron roared as sparks cascaded down his face. "You aren't traitors, are you?"

"No, Lord Galvatron, I am sorry," a cowering Wingspan groveled.

"Good. That being said, congratulations on retrieving the rods." He turned to the gathered generals, leaving the Clones both terrified and confused by the praise. "You all know what to do with these. Do not disappoint me."

"The Combaticons don't disappoint, sir," Onslaught said as Galvatron handed him one of the rods.

"I have the fourth-largest contingent of Decepticons in our ranks, Galvatron. Consider it done," Motormaster boasted, slinging his canister over his broad shoulder.

"Know we shall complete our side of the operation, or die trying," the Predacon leader affirmed, transforming to his lithe and deadly robot mode.

Hun-Grr nearly ate the rod he was given, but stopped himself halfway and downed a flask of Energon in addition to the mass of gray material already in his mouth. "Fanks. Wo'll get th' job don'."

Snaptrap simply growled, low and throatily, as Galvatron's mechservant gave him his rod. "Talk is cheap. I will not make promises for something we will pull off easily."

Galvatron would never admit it, but Snaptrap was the most intimidating mech on the launchpad save him and his servant. The Seacon leader didn't scare him _per se_ , but with his skill and size, he would be a tough dog to put down if Cyclonus somehow managed to turn the Seacons against him.

"I shall return from my mission in less than eight decacycles," Galvatron declared, reclaiming his position on the scenic vantage point. "By that time, I expect all of you to have completed the parts you have to play. May the Chaos Bringer augment you with strength and look favorably upon your respective journeys. Leave at once."

"Hail Unicron," the generals said as they left the launchpad. Galvatron remained there, watching the destruction being wreaked upon the once-grand Central Spaceport. It was beautiful in its own right - destruction meant casualties of all those who had dared to cross the Decepticon Empire and, by extension, the Chaos Bringer. Simply, all Galvatron was doing was bringing about a new Golden Age in Unicron's name, the way things were supposed to be from the beginning.

"Sir, forgive me for asking, but shouldn't we fall back?" the green-and-white mech inquired in anticipation. Clearly, he was excited at the prospect of reentering battle as much as the Stunticon Commander had been.

"Do you see that dropship approaching from the east?" Galvatron asked, intentionally ignoring the larger mech's comment. "They did not exist back in my time. Neither did those Autobot fliers escorting it. When I was alive - for the first time - the power of self-controlled flight was, for the most part, a purely Decepticon trait."

"Fascinating. Your point is, _sir?"_ his accomplice said, losing patience.

"It irritates me, these 'Aerialbots' acting as if they own the skies," he said, carefully defining his words. "My successor - and, funnily enough, my predecessor - Megatron, he felt differently. Towards the end of your Terran War, he even felt a minuscule amount of pride for these flying monkeys, despite the rough punishment he put them through in battle." Two large red sparks jetted from his head with sharp _snap_ sounds. "I, however, am an old-fashioned robot. Control of the air always has and always will belong to the Decepticons. So . . . show those upstarts what a one-robot army is . . . Sixshot."

"I thought you'd never get to the fragging point," Sixshot grumbled as he converted into his AA tank form, one of many to come, and planted his glowing green reticle on the rapidly approaching specks. This was, truly, what he was made for.

* * *

"This is Unit 20-A to ground. We're nearing the drop point. Is the landing zone clear?" Moonwalk, the Autobot Flier class, asked.

"Almost. You should be safe to land, though. Have someone man the MG, just in case," the grainy response came.

"Roger." Moonwalk flipped a clearly labeled switch on the dropship's center console, making the starboard heavy machine gun slide into place. With but a push of a button, the nose pulse cannon extended to the optimal firing position. It never failed to amaze him how easy the Mk. IV Mercy dropships were to pilot compared to his own Cryptglider attack gunship back on Earth. He remembered the many aerial engagements with invading Seekers, just barely able to keep up to the Decepticons's nimble and fast alternate forms.

 _Not important right now_ , he chided himself, picking up the dropship's included F-Radio transmitter. "Moonwalk to Jetlag and Silverbolt."

"We read you," the elder Aerialbot commander prompted.

"I've just been informed of a small number of Rebels at the dropsite, so watch each other's sixes, OK?"

"Yessir. We always do-INCOMING!" the younger team leader shouted, just too late to save his brother Meteor from a barrage of flak that came seemingly out of nowhere. Each deadly accurate round cut through the G2 Aerialbots's resident Elite, exploding within his now-flaming frame and peppering the rest of the Fliers with sharp pieces of carbon-steel. Jetlag and his brothers screamed in pure agony as all that was Meteor was erased from existence, his body engulfed in fire to the point where he was unrecognizable as a Cybertronian, crashing to the ground far below like the space rocks he was named after.

"Frag! I'm hit!" Air Raid of the elder Aerialbots yelled as he began to smoke. "I've got to land! I-"

Suddenly, a purple interceptor vehicle with a broad front end slammed into his wingmech Cleansweep at what seemed to be Mach Two. Air Raid saw everything in slow motion. First, the vehicle hit his Generation Two counterpart, caving the poor Warrior's fuselage in beyond repair. He was no medic, but Air Raid knew instantly there would be no recovering from a collision like that - everything he had loved about the meticulous young Seekerling was gone forever.

Before he could begin to articulate a scream of rage, before Cleansweep's lifeless chassis could begin its descent to earth, before the spark-felt signal was sent to the G2 Aerialbots containing the pain he had felt in the last moments of his life, the vehicle rebounded off Cleansweep's body and sheared off Air Raid's tailfins and most of his left wing, sending him into a tailspin.

His last few thoughts before he hit the ground were of the good times he had shared with his little earth-born brothers, and how those moments would never be shared again, even if the others pulled through.

* * *

Silverbolt felt Air Raid crash, saw the flames billow upward from the refueling depot he had landed, and began praying that his younger brother would survive. A tiny *tink* noise made by an interceptor vehicle ricocheting off the nearby dropship was all he had to go by before an enormous mech suddenly put his cockpit into a death grip.

"Get off!" he yelled, trying to shake the intruder. His aerodynamics were horrible, the wind pushing off the green mech's boxy form. Silverbolt began to stall as the mech raised a shotgun, aiming at the closest Aerialbot - a gold VTOL by the name of Whirlwind. The Aerialbot leader was forced to watch as the Decepticon unloaded six shells into the luckless Flier, the shotgun bucking and kicking with recoil that would topple any normal Warrior. Whirlwind, the poor wretch, crumbled into pieces like a badly-made oilcake.

"NO!" Silverbolt shouted. He had no choice but to take this Rebel down via any means possible. The Aerialbot transformed, grabbing the Decepticon by the waist and throwing him with all of his might toward the rapidly approaching ground. Primus, it was so high up . . .

The Rebel spread out in mid-air, slowing his descent. Silverbolt transformed, charging his shield-shattering electromagnetic bolt to full capacity.

But the Decepticon would have none of it and shot the mostly defenseless Silverbolt three times with his shotgun. The rounds hit much harder than he had figured they would, cutting straight through his shields and breaching the light Flier's nosecone armor.

The leader of the Aerialbots was knocked offline by the third blast. Sixshot paid no attention to the flaming jet. Far as he was concerned, the silver Seeker wannabe was already ascending to the great junkyard in the sky. He converted into his own aerial form and thrust into the sky, passing the doomed dropship on his way up.

* * *

"Primus fraggit! What the Pit was that?" Moonwalk exclaimed in surprise, yanking the dropship back to its original altitude as a black blur shot into the air on the right. The force that hit the side of the ship had knocked it a smidge to the right and almost hit Jetlag, who was currently suffering sparkshock and unable to react to stimulus in any way.

"It was Sixshot! I saw his face when he took down Whirlwind!" one of the hastily-gathered troops in back cried.

"Sixshot?! Slag! Why didn't someone pin some ordinance on him?"

"You saw how fast he was! I didn't have a chance to pull the trigger!"

Moonwalk took a deep vent, trying to get his panic under control. Some had already jumped out of the dropship in an effort to get away from the rogue STAG. "This is Unit 20-A to ground. We're down five Aerialbots," he reported urgently over the F-radio, "but we'll still be able to reach the dropzone. We have a confirmed sighting of Sixshot as well. Send a search-and-rescue team, but be ready for heavy resistance. Over." Then, to the people still aboard, "Does anyone have a visual on Sixshot?"

The trademark metallic groan of intensive mass shifting was the Flier's only reply before the dropship's troop hold was abruptly impaled by a massive submarine.

* * *

Sixshot activated his external thrusters, hailing from his aerial modes yet accessible in this aquatic form. He'd only have a few moments before the ship's antigrav matrix failed. He slowly entered a proper firing angle, forcing the dropship to hover at a strange position perpendicular to the ground. Something flailed about inside the ruined hull, punching the STAG's thick armor with pitiful strikes. With a single lurch, the pounding ceased.

The Aerialbots remaining in the air - those not affected much by sparkshock, that is - were preparing defensive maneuvers, getting far enough away to begin a strafing run. The brightly-colored neon Fliers were the first to go, making easy targets for Sixshot as they flew aimlessly forward. With three powerful blasts from his bow cannon, the G2 Aerialbots were no more.

Closing fast were two jets, one gray and the other red. Sixshot knew from experience that the gray one was a handful, an aerial acrobat simply unsurpassed in skill and capable of outflying even the most battle-hardened Seekers.

 _Dodge this, flyboy,_ he thought to himself, opening two missile batteries on either side of his main cannon and locking target on the annoying Strategist. Had he cared about such things, he would have seen Skydive quite impressively manage to dodge approximately eighty-two percent of the incendiary torpedoes, but it was the last eighteen percent and a powerful blast of laser from Sixshot that sent the Aerialbot plummeting.

The STAG considered gloating about his latest victory, but just then, the matrix of the dropship failed and he began to lose altitude. He activated his exterior cameras as a last-minute attempt to take down another Aerialbot and saw the form of a helicopter high above, launching spark-seeking rockets at him with a vengeance.

Sixshot roared with rage as Slingshot's Sparkeater missiles detonated against his hull, bypassing his shields with their unique energy signature and directly damaging his armor. Infuriated, he transformed once again, the remnants of the dropship crumbling away as he converted into his last, bestial form. There Sixshot saw the little pest with his own optics, still attempting to take him down with his admittedly vast armory. He soared towards the helicopter, meeting him with a growl and tearing off his rotors with his beast mode's claws. Slingshot fell like a rock, bleeding Energon and screaming the whole way down.

One left. Sixshot turned, flapping his mostly useless wings out of habit as his jets did all the work. Though his optics in this form were terrible up close, his winged cyberwolf's optical array was phenomenal at long distances. He whirled about, trying to locate the last Aerialbot left alive.

Finally, the gleam of a red jet caught his eye, darting between the launch towers and fuel tanks.

 _Found you._

* * *

Fireflight was on the lowest burn he could muster while still keeping in the air. He could feel his brothers through the gestalt bond, most in stasis lock. It gave him a sick feeling in the back of his head, but he knew that if he could just revive Silverbolt, it would go away and everything would be all right.

He had to hurry before the monster found him.

 _Where are you, Silverbolt? I'm scared . . ._ Fireflight asked frantically over the Aerialbot link.

Like Silverbolt had answered his plea, he saw him, lying on the edge of a small plaza. The younger Aerialbot switched his antigravs on before he exposed himself in the open area, weighing his options. If he went out there, the monster would see and kill him, without a doubt. He had one of his smoke bombs left, but that would just give his position away and draw the attention of the monster, who was large enough to take up the entire minimum-range of the cloud.

 _Fine._ Fireflight shot one of his innocuous-looking fire-fog missiles about twenty mechanometers away, then switched to his smoke ones and covered the area around Silverbolt with the thick gray screen. As he flew into the smoke cloud, he saw a green-and-silver, vaguely Primitive shape dive into the fire-fog, then seconds later, a bone-chilling howl of pain as he tugged his older brother behind a nearby small, rather pretty structure.

 _Not important, so not important._ He shook his brother, sending the strongest message of WAKE UP over the bond that he could muster.

"Please, Silverbolt, I'm so scared, please wake up," he begged.

His brother didn't respond, not even when the monster barreled into Fireflight at top speed.

"AAH!" the Aerialbot cried as the monster knocked him to the ground, ripping massive tears into his sensitive wings as he fell. Fireflight backed away as fast as he could, adrenaline numbing the pain emitting from his ruined sensory/flight organs. The beast was a huge mockery of a cyberwolf, with bare vestiges of a Cybertronian visible in the twisted frame, much like one of the Terrorcons that Fireflight himself had fought in the Unicron Wars. Silver wings folded over its back, and two sharp-looking tails whipped through the air behind it. On top of that, it was still wreathed in fire from Fireflight's first missile, making it seem very much like a creature crawled from the depths of the Pit itself.

"Please don't . . . Not like this . . ." Fireflight whimpered as he dove for his offline brother. Tears welled in his optics and flowed freely down his faceplate even as he raised his Reconnaissance Rifle at the monster. "Back off! Leave S-Silverbolt alone! Kill me, but let my brothers go!"

* * *

Sixshot, unimpressed by the Aerialbot's lack of conviction, loped toward the trembling child. The fire-fog decoy had angered the STAG, and even now the flames were eating away at his shields. His left leg smarted from the Sparkeater barrage, and he salivated at the prospect of killing this sparkling so his brother would suffer for however long he would continue to vent air. A part of him wanted to rip the red Flier apart slowly - fear tasted savory and delicious - but he thought better of it. There was no honor in eating one's opponent, and Galvatron would call the assault off at any moment now, anyways. In the end, he elected to just kill the child and the rest of the Autobot Fliers and be done with it.

* * *

The beast came close enough to be picked up by Fireflight's now-limited olfactory sensors. His spark hammered within his chest, and his white palms were smeared smoky gray with seeping oil. Keeping his body over Silverbolt, he shouted, "S-stay away! STAY BACK!"

He shuttered his optics tightly, causing more fluid to squeeze out, laid closer to his brother, and pulled the trigger.

 _Click._

 _Weapon jammed,_ the all-too-obvious readout on Fireflight's HUD stated.

"No, no, no . . . Oh, slag."

As the Reconnaissance Private watched in fear, letting his inept weapon drop minutely, the monster howled a terrifying, triumphant screech and rushed toward Fireflight, slavering jaws wide enough to swallow him in one piece . . .

 _Bam!_

 _Ratatatat!_

 _FWOOM!_

The monster jumped back, smoke curling from its now ash-blackened head. It roared furiously and charged to Fireflight's right, but left after several noises sounding like blows, leaving with a pained shriek and spiraling into the air.

Loud ringing filled Fireflight's auditory sensors from the blast, even with his audio-protecting helm. Abruptly, a pair of broad arms yanked him to his pedes. He fought and squirmed, trying to deliver an elbow strike to his captor's midsection, but whoever was holding him was too strong.

"Lemme go!" he shouted desperately, vocoder cracking from stress.

"-reflight! FIREFLIGHT! It's me, son - Optimus Prime. Are you okay?"

"Optimus . . . I-I'm sorry, sir. Uhh . . . my brothers, sir . . . you have to help me find my brothers. . ." Fireflight replied, dazed.

"We will find them, young one. You are in no condition to assist us. Bridgehead," he beckoned to one of his Knights, "see to this Seekerling. Ensure that he is cared for and his wounds are patched as well as conditions will allow."  
"Yes, Prime," Bridgehead said, taking Fireflight by the arm and bringing him over to the offline Aerialbot leader.

"Sixshot's still out there, Prime. Should we track him down, finish him off?" Hot Rod asked, jogging lightly over to Optimus's side.

"Hot Rod. Aren't you supposed to helping out back at the _Fortress Maximus?"_ Optimus inquired with firmness in his voice, turning away from Fireflight and Bridgehead.

"I don't need to be, sir. The Rebels withdrew right after you and the Knights left."

* * *

"Ha! They're all running!"

"G-g-guess w-we scared dem away, eh."

"That doesn't mean we're in the clear. They could simply be clearing the way for a massive attack," I said as loudly as I could and over the radio. "Keep sharp. Get some more cover over here." _I don't like this at all,_ I thought idly as I pulled a relatively unmarred wheeled crate to my own position.

"Renegade, what's your take on the situation?" I asked the ACTS captain. He liked to play fast and loose with rules, hence his name. At the moment he was chambering another round into his fully upgraded Nucleon Charge Rifle.

"Ya want my opinion, Detective?" he asked, talking around a cy-garette.

"I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't," I bit back. There was never time for sarcasm on the battlefield.

"I think they're clearin' the way fer a massive attack. Gaining control o' the _Fortress,_ that kinda thing."

I scowled. "Thanks."

"'S what I'm here fer. I'd recc'mend we consolidate 'round the entrances."

"And we finally agree on something. Tell your men to guard the main gangplank, I'll see if I can get Scattershot on again."

"Sounds good."

I gave the command over general comm to focus on the entrances and sat down, leaning on the wheeled crate. "Nightbeat to Scattershot. Come in. Repeat, Nightbeat to Scattershot. Come in."

"I hear you, Detective, but we're a little busy at the moment. Fraggin' Mindwipe knocked Lightspeed into the fuel reservoir below the _Fortress_ , and we're having difficulty getting back up."

"Scrap. Tell me when you get out." I sighed. A terrible smell had enveloped the cargo area of the _FortMax,_ an odor much like rusting metal, or a grease-encrusted turboworm flailing about in its own waste.

 _Funny._ That hadn't been there before. Something clicked inside my processor and I instinctively quirked an optical ridge in thought.

"Siren, duck," I said matter-of-factly.

"WHY SHOULD I - OH SLAG!" my protégé exclaimed as I pointed my pistol directly at his cranial unit.

Siren - good listener, despite his volume problem - ducked accordingly, clearing the way for the thirteen bullets I shot into the air behind him. Everyone in the bay jumped and started in surprise, letting exclamations of fear fly, but I paid them no attention. I had to be right, or else I would appear to have gone mad as a petro-rabbit . . .

To my relief - and subsequent horror - the air shimmered and took form, solidifying quickly into a brute of a mech two mechanometers tall and pawing at his chest armor with enormous white hands. He was powerfully built, with a broad chest and long, thick arms. He possessed an array of red tailfins on his back, seemingly part of a Shuttle-class alternate mode. The Decepticon sigil was brandished proudly on the white crest-like design spanning his chest. He looked - and smelled - familiar, but I couldn't exactly put my digit on it at the moment. My vast databases spun, trying to put a name to this face.

The mechs under my temporary command began to fire upon the previously-cloaked Rebel as he converted into a fearsome primitive form. Twin columns on either side of his chest unfolded, turning into two relatively small legs, his entire torso turned 160 degrees backward so the tailfins ended up on his back, and his head flipped lengthwise, becoming an entirely different cranial unit - that of a sharp-toothed Torax.

"Apeface." I snarled, recognizing the Rebel in an instant. I had busted him a while back for running Nuke when he was a former Decepticon, but he hadn't had the red tailfins then or a robot mode that I had ever seen, preferring to conduct deals in his Primitive form. Evidently, he had undergone some matter of Triple-Changing reformat since joining the Decepticon Rebels, which only made him more dangerous. A drug runner was bad enough alone, but a drug runner with resources and a tertiary alternate mode was exponentially worse.

Apeface said nothing, instead responding with a foul-smelling roar. Though I dashed backward, the Rebel moved faster than I could react, faster than any memory I had of him and caught me by the leg, lifting me into the air and holding me upside down. My fellow Autobots stopped firing, evidently afraid of hitting me.

"What are you waiting for? SHOOT HIM! I shouted as I twisted about, finishing off my magazine into Apeface's head. My heavy trenchcoat fell around my shoulders and head, but I could still see the Rebel's ugly face. Around the _Fortress,_ more fighting broke out as a small contingent of flying Decepticons with Pit to pay soared in from the neighboring spires and command towers, forcing the defenders into the prison ship.

"You're not so tough," Apeface growled in my audio when the mag was empty. Then, he drew up on his forearm and threw me bodily into the cargo hold of the _Fortress Maximus._

I hit a crate of something dense and saw stars. An explosion happened just outside, close enough I could feel the heat from the conflagration, followed by a screechy roar. I couldn't be out of the fight so easily, not me. It simply wasn't logical.

But my throbbing processor had other ideas, and I was taken by blackness.

* * *

"Slaggin' Autobot! Snapdragon, get down here NOW!"

At last, the call Snapdragon had been waiting for graced his audios. He cared not for subterfuge and would have gladly continued to fight the Autobots and Decepticons unworthy of the title who were guarding the prison ship had Galvatron not called a retreat. Fortunately, there were a few of his fellow Rebels who felt the same way. They had told each other over a private communications server that this spat would be simple: send Apeface in so he could kill off a few initially, then go back in and exterminate anyone left alive at the loading bay. Then they would retreat once the aggressors had been taken care of. Apparently, however, Snapdragon's companion had failed his part that he had to play. No matter, that would just make this that much more fun.

"Decepticons, attack!" he hissed over their small little comm-net as he pushed off from the tower he was holding on to and transformed. The others - Triggerhappy, Slugslinger, and Misfire, who had all received harsh punishment in the initial battle - peeled away from their spires as well, peppering the various service hatches of the ship with volleys of laser and plasma.

Snapdragon, however, powered straight for the loading bay. He soared through the ruined, now-roofless canopy that at one time protected goods being loaded into the ship and crashed headlong into the nearest barrels of oil he could find, which happened to be right in front of a group of Neutrals.

KABOOM! Fuel ignited on contact with his burning-hot thrusters and made a fireball, incinerating those closest to the epicenter and scalding those farther away. Being a Shuttle-class, Snapdragon's heat shielding protected his delicate machinery as he converted into his primitive form - that of the legendary Terran reptile that his name translated to in their tongue.

He screeched in elation, lashing out with one of his powerful forelegs and making a red-and-green Gladiator class with an enormous sniper rifle fall to the ground, flame licking the edges of his utilitarian ballistic armor. It pleased Snapdragon to see the remaining Autobots running in terror from his sudden appearance, straight into the raging Apeface and desperately dashing into the _Fortress_ as a last resort. The Gladiator class at his feet crawled backward like the pitiful coward he was as his Nucleon rifle folded back into his arm and he patted out the fire.

Apeface's hydraulic fist slammed into the ground beside the Autobot, causing him to scurry into the _Fortress_ like the rest of his glitch-mouse fellows.

"Look at all the cowering Autobots, Apeface," Snapdragon growled, stretching his wings over the gap between him and his partner just to hammer in the point that there was no escape. The Autobots pointed their weapons at the two Terrorcons, hands shaking in fright. They seemed to close ranks around an injured cobalt mech, trying in vain to protect him.

"We've got a score to settle, punks!" his odiferous ally said, cracking his knuckles and belching threateningly.

"I'll enjoy rolling on your grayed corpses, bathing in the fluids that seep out of your bodily orifices!" the Interceptor roared, charging forth on four legs with his cavernous jaws wide open. He lunged at his enemy, front leg extended, and . . .

 **SLAM!**

"ACK! Agrh . . ." Snapdragon gurgled as the cargo bay door closed hard on his beast mode chest. He couldn't vent and damage warnings shot across his HUD. Precious fuel lines in his torso snapped, the fluid that coursed through them leaking out of his mouth. He felt his spark strain under the pressure, something that truly scared him. He didn't want to die. The accursed Autobots began firing, each round, each bullet, each spray of carbon-alloy shrapnel punching holes in his vulnerable cranial unit.

Slag. He was going to die here, shot to pieces by a group of yellow-bellied cowards and all he could do was swipe feebly at the Autobots with his one arm, and his injuries were about to make even that impossible. Beneath his clawed hind legs, the runway of the titanic ship began to move.

* * *

"Snapdragon! No!" Apeface exclaimed when the heat-resistant blast doors slammed shut on his friend's head. He loped forward, prepared to physically force the doors open with his profound strength, but just then the ship turned on.

Above his head, twenty mechanometers straight up, the enormous main thruster sent a broad beam of red-orange flame arcing through the air. A loud rumble shook the very floor of the loading bay as the long collapsing runway extended fully over the Trannis Fork River, far below the First Ring of Iacon that the Spaceport dangled on the edge of.

To Apeface's terror, the _Fortress Maximus_ began to move, slowly at first, but gaining speed rapidly. Snapdragon's rear end went along with it, his back three legs skittering down the entire cargo gangplank before dropping off as it ended.

"Stop!" he shouted uselessly, running as fast as his stubby legs could carry him. He leapt off the gangplank, converting to his shuttle form and rocketing towards the _Fortress_ as it picked up speed.

"Don't do it, Apeface! Snapdragon's a lost cause!" Misfire advised the Saboteur over comm, but the Horrorcon would have none of it. He transformed again, hitting the blast door at forty miles per hour and grabbing hold of his entrapped ally.

"Autobot!" Triggerhappy yelled, breaking retreat formation and turning back towards the _Fortress._ Indeed, looking like an ant-droid compared to the absolutely huge prison ship, there was a red Cybertronian car, accompanied by a gold Terran racecar driving full-tilt after it.

"Aw, Triggerhappy, leave them! We don't have time for this!" Misfire said, turning to retrieve his wingmate. Slugslinger had no choice but to turn back as well. Maybe he'd even be able to put another kill mark on his guns afterward.

Apeface paid no attention to his comrades, sending Snapdragon a comm over the Interceptor's panicked and hurt mind. " _Buddy, if you can hear me, I'm going to get you out, don't worry. I need you to work with me. Please._ "

He received no response, but he thought Snapdragon loosened up a little. Apeface began pulling underneath his friend's exposed shoulder, simultaneously shoving the double-panel cargo bulkhead down as hard as he could. Rounds _pinged_ off of the heavy blast doors, some flying through the arm-sized gap and hitting Apeface's bare alloy, his energy shields now completely gone. That couldn't be good for the Interceptor, so he redoubled his efforts, tugging on Snapdragon's shoulder coupling hard and frequently. He felt something snap inside his friend's armored chassis, but Apeface didn't care. It seemed that the other Horrorcon was mostly out already.

With a lurch, the _Fortress Maximus_ began to lift into the air, the thrusters becoming hot and intense as they pushed to get the decidedly non-aerodynamic prison ship into the air. Blisteringly-hot jets deployed around the cargo hold to help lift the _Fortress_ , and the gunfire inside stopped as the Autobots sought cover, their armor useless against the heat of a spacecraft taking off.

Apeface had a little longer before his own paint bubbled thanks to his Shuttle-class armor. He let out a final shout of defiance and gave Snapdragon one strong yank. One scaly blue front leg broke free, pushing feebly off of the rapidly heating hull as the Saboteur pounded the recumbent cargo door one last time, and the Horrorcons came hurtling down.

As they fell, Apeface pulled Snapdragon close and turned as best as he could, presenting his own back to the unforgiving runway below.

A _crunch_ and Apeface rolled on his side, the ledge on his back consisting of his thrusters and the back half of his alternate mode dented and crushed. With one diagnostic, he was told that it was mostly cosmetic, but he wouldn't be able to fly unless his tailfins were repaired. It still hurt like the Pit, though.

Snapdragon was worse off. The Interceptor lay on his side in beast mode, venting shallowly. His head resembled a Terran sock puppet that had been terribly abused, and he was leaking Energon profusely.

"Buddy? You OK?" Apeface asked worriedly. He initiated a very low-grade systems scan - the only one he knew how to do - and was glad to know, at least, Snapdragon's spark wasn't in danger of expiring.

He let out a grateful vent. "Good. Let's get you home."

The Saboteur transformed, long Torax arms swinging down to tenderly drape his friend over his shoulders. He grunted a little as he stood to the best of his ability, and then started the trek down the long runway. Frag it. Where were the Fliers when you needed them?

* * *

It came, unnoticeably at first, then gradually becoming more intense as time passed. Hot Rod felt it long before the Knights Temporal or even Optimus Prime himself did, but Fireflight was the only one to remark on the sound.

Optimus was just about to give the command to scour the Spaceport for any remaining Rebels when the Aerialbot piped up, "Hey . . . Is it just me, or does anyone else feel a kind of rumbling?"

Anvil, the Chargerfight Knight, scowled. "I was hoping it was just my adrenaline."

"The runway in front of the _FortMax's_ lowering! It's about to take off!" someone shouted. Hot Rod didn't see who said it, but he knew in an instant they were correct.

"No . . . This was a setup!" Optimus declared. "The Rebels must have retreated after obtaining the Plasma Energy Rods to lure us into a false sense of security, then sent a saboteur to take the ship while we were busy chasing after the Rods! Galvatron has robbed us blind without our notice!" He turned to Hot Rod, optics blazing with disbelief. "Hot Rod, you are the only one here fast enough to reach the _Fortress Maximus_ before it lifts off. You must hurry! I wish you the best of luck, my successor. Now go!"

"Roger!" Hot Rod transformed and accelerated faster than he ever had in his life. He tore over runways and launchpads, darted around spires, and even drove through a few buildings in a frantic race to the heavily-armed ship. If the Rebels got a hold of the _Fortress,_ the acts of terrorism they could visit upon their adversaries would be staggering. His vents worked double-time to rid his frame of excess heat generated in his mad dash and he just prayed he could make it in time.

He called the leader of the Throttlebots as he jumped a crest. There it was, just over the next block of buildings, moving slowly still, but about to speed up exponentially. "Goldfire, ya still at the _FortMax_ loading bay?"

"Yes! The ship is-"

"Taking off, yes, I know. You need to transform, OK? There's a bunch of Rebels on that ship, and they're gonna plunge Iacon into fire and brimstone with its guns. We need to take it back."

Hot Rod roared into the loading bay pushing 180, and had time to catch a glimpse of a gold Earth racecar peeling out after him from the nearby exports building.

"A fleet of Decepticons attacked the main entrances a minute ago. They were probably covering for a sabotage team." Goldfire affirmed.

"This keeps getting better and better," the Cavalier said as he rammed through a chain-link gate at the bottom of the loading ramp and on to the long runway. Goldfire followed close behind.

Hot Rod pinged the steersman of the _Fortress,_ a mech by the name of Cerebros, with an urgent comm request, which was accepted without pause.

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, I'm locked out of my own bridge, I can't get in! Someone's inside, overriding all of my keycodes and jamming my bridge cameras! Whoever's in there's serious, sir, and I can't even get eyes in-"

"Cerebros! Can you open a hatch or something? One that can get me to the interior of the ship?" Hot Rod interrupted him.

A pause. "Yes, sir, I can. There's a waste pipe on the very bottom of the ship. You must hurry, though, we'll lift off at any moment."

"Good! Watch yourself, it could be dangerous!" He closed Cerebros's commlink. "A waste pipe?"

"One of the many elegancies of being a former Autobot leader, I'm sure," Goldfire panted.

"Sure, but someone's gotta-DECEPTICON!"

A blue jet fighter spiraled out of the smoky sky on their right, perforating the runway with hot bolts of laser and sending Hot Rod into a swerve. Goldfire slammed on his brakes, flying backward and out of the field of fire.

"Slag! Was that Triggerhappy?" he said as he regained speed.

"Undoubtedly," Goldfire said grimly. "As long as he's still active, we won't be able to make it to the _Fortress_ together."

"What are you saying?" Hot Rod said, already knowing what the answer would be. The ship drew closer and closer, shaking intensely with every seam in the collapsible runway. Soon, it would be literally on top of them.

"You're faster than I am, and you're less armored in general. I'm already slowing you down as it is. You've handled crowds easily five times as big as any sabotage team I've seen in my career, so you'll do just fine without me. I'll distract Triggerhappy. You get to the _Fortress._ Take down a few Rebels for me when you get there, huh?"

Goldfire sent an archived image over the commlink. It featured the Espionage Director himself flashing a thumbs up toward the camera, faceplate retracted and a wide grin plastered over his face. Hot Rod remembered the day it was taken, the eve of the Decepticons' official surrender. There had been tangible festivity in the air, not just for the Autobots but the Decepticons as well. The millennia-long war had finally ended and everyone was happy. For most, their entire lives had been conflict, and now it was over. In short, it had been quite a monumental day, carrying hints of better times to come.

"Yes, sir, Goldfire," Hot Rod affirmed, accelerating to his fastest speed. In his rearview mirror, he could see his old friend transforming, shooting a powerful bolt of electricity at the dark blue Rebel. "We'll be able to laugh about this someday."

With a burst of agreement from Goldfire's end, the commlink closed, and Hot Rod passed underneath the _Fortress Maximus._

* * *

The enormous machine's underside acted as a wind tunnel, pushing against the Cavalier and slowing him down considerably, but he persevered.

 _Where is it?_ Hot Rod thought to himself, scouring the vaulted slate gray underbelly of the _FortMax_ for the open hatch that would allow him entry. It shouldn't have been so hard to locate a dangling hatch cover, and - ah. There it was, the barred maintenance cover hanging down and making something of a half-length ladder.

Ahead, the heavy-duty ramps made for getting ships like this into the air loomed like a foreboding cliff, marking the very end of the runway. It was truly now or never so, with a final war cry, Hot Rod transformed, using the kinetic energy from his transformation to catapult into the air. He reached out as far as he could and managed to grab one of the bars with one hand.

With a lurch, the ship lifted into the air, nearly dislodging Hot Rod from his precarious grip. The Cavalier threw his other hand up and over, taking hold of another bar. From there, it was but a simple hand-over-hand climb into the waste pipe.

* * *

 _Clank._

Hot Rod removed a grate with precision honed from many years of practice, yielding little to no noise. He grunted as he exited the waste pipe, covered in semi-solid oily slime left over from the prison ship's profound fuel use. He stank, and there was no way to deny it, but he didn't have time to clean himself.

The room he was in seemed to be a utility closet, covered wall-to-wall in pipes and gauges. He gave it a quick glance and kicked down the door, sweeping side to side with his photon laser, then began to move down the hallway. As Autobot Leader, he had been briefed on the basic floor plans of notable giant ships, so he knew where his destination lay - down this hall, up a ladder, first hatch on the top floor.

 _I'll need some firepower if I'm going to take back the ship,_ he thought. In his mind, he told himself that he was unworthy of accepting the mantle of Prime again, but his spark told him not to listen. Cementing his resolve, he transformed as he walked.

Rodimus Prime's spoiler lengthened along its horizontal axis and his helm flattened out, splitting into five points thrusting into the air. Kibble attached to his legs folded out and down, turning into durasteel leggings and making him a head taller than he originally stood. His shoulders turned into pylons, rising proudly above his head as his chest assembly tilted up and back into his frame. Lastly, his photon laser lengthened to fit his new tall and powerful body, components assembling themselves from subspace and changing the Cavalier's short-range and fast-firing Photon Laser into the Autobot Leader's long-range Photon Eliminator. He took the long ladder three rungs at a time, ascending to the top in an instant. Rodimus braced himself to destroy the carbon-steel hatch - an arduous task - but someone pinged him with a comm request.

"Cerebros, I'm just outside the bridge! I'm going to break in!"

"Don't!" the steersman shouted desperately. Rodimus was surprised at this sudden turnaround but elected to listen anyways. "I've run several foolproof scans throughout the entirety of the ship! They're not picking up any Decepticon energy signatures."

Rodimus relaxed minutely but still kept his guard up. "So what you're saying is that we've got either a turncoat or a sleeper agent."

"That's just it, sir. Whoever launched the _Fortress_ was using an energy masking device that I've never seen the likes of. I'm fairly confident that the _Fortress's_ sensors can see past any device known to Cybertronians if the user's a Decepticon. It comes with the fact that this was a maximum-security prison during the war. I know that this mystery pilot isn't a Rebel."

"But then who is it?" Rodimus thought aloud.

"There are several citizens that wound up aboard when we took off. They've all gathered in the main cell block. It's a cargo hold now, so if you see any crates, you're in the right place."

"What about the bridge?"

"I'll look into it, see if I can find paint chips, devices, any internal fluids, things like that. Once I'm done, I'm turning back to Cybertron. We've gone through several spatial warps, however, so it may take a few vorns at least. You get to the old ward and see what you can find out."

"Gotcha," Rodimus said, subspacing his photon eliminator and heading back down the long ladder.

Between the Cybertronians of various builds and the storage crates strewn about the cell block, there was standing room only. All eyes turned to Rodimus as he entered the room through the small corridor leading from the ladder.

"Alright, bots," he began, switching into "leader" mode. "We've got a troublemaker aboard. No, no - relax. Whoever it is, it ain't a Rebel. What Cerebros and I have pieced together is, someone wanted to take a joyride in a Titan-class prison ship for whatever reason and took off with an unreal energy masking device cloaking their entire body and signature. I'm sure I don't need to illustrate why this needs to be looked into. So, when we arrive back on Cybertron, everyone currently in this room will have to submit to a search by mnemosurgeon the second we arrive. _Capisce_?"

The cell block erupted in protest, disbelief, and anger overwriting each other as every last mech expressed his outrage. Rodimus held his hand up for peace.

"Cool it!" he shouted, putting a temporary quiet over the angry group. "If it makes you feel better, I'll issue a formal command that the surgeon doesn't change or worm through any of your memories except the ones from the past two vorns. Okay? I'll even go first once we get back. You all can watch me get scanned by whatever surgeon we can find, and I'll pay for the operations."

A smaller brown-and-red mech in the front of the crowd, who Rodimus knew well, put his own hand up. "I'm a mnemosurgeon."

"There we go! Everyone, this is Chromedome. He's a good guy, good surgeon too. Got a light touch and finishes his work like-" he snapped his fingers, "-that. It's not as bad as you think, believe me." He nodded at Chromedome, apologizing without words for putting the Courier class on the spot.

A voice came from the midst of the crowd. "When will we get back, Prime?"

"Well . . . right now, Cerebros is searching for any trace our mystery mech may have left behind, then he'll start heading back to Cybertron. However, we have gone through a couple spatial warps, so it may take a while to return to our sector."

"But how long will it be?" the same voice asked politely, yet persistently.

"Alone, Cerebros will take more than three vorns," Rodimus said, bracing for the displeasure that would inevitably follow.

Groaning and angry shouts cropped up once more, just as he had predicted.

"That's not good enough! Hot Rod, I left my shop wide open! Didn't even lock it!" Crosshairs, a member of Rodimus's initial response team shouted.

"A'hm needin' ta hae me operation!" a Gigantian, towering above the rest, bellowed in a thick brogue.

"I've experiments to conduct! I can't believe this!" Brainstorm, ever the scientist.

"What about all them Rebels still terrorizing the Spaceport? They just gonna get away like that?!"

"Every moment we waste means another Rebel killing an innocent civilian!"

"I have time. This is fine."

"Ach, Rewind's gonna be worried sick . . ."

"Enough!" Rodimus shouted. "I'm no happier about this situation than you are. How many of you know how to drive a Titan-class prison ship?"

Several hands went up, most of them from Enforcer builds, including a drill from an electric blue Mini-Con. "Ah wis made tae pilot thae mothers!"

"Good. So, let's head to the bridge and help Cerebros out a bit. I have some bits and pieces of captaining knowledge myself. Roll out."

* * *

Rodimus himself loitered a bit inside the main warden's corridor, watching and memorizing the faces of the mechs underneath his temporary command as they ascended the long ladder. They consisted of a wide variety of builds, from Fliers to even a few Gladiator classes. Amazingly, they all fit inside the caged ladder housing designed to protect Enforcers from rowdy inmates. It had seemed smaller when Rodimus was going to the bridge, but that could have been adrenaline focusing his processor to a point.

A dark blue Destroyer approached the ladder behind an orange-and-blue Warrior Rodimus recognized as Scoop, a clergymech turned infantryman. Something seemed familiar about the Destroyer, the way he sized Rodimus up as he got closer. His cerulean optics seemed to carry a predator's intensity, yet a respectful grin spread across his pale blue face.

Suddenly, Rodimus realized him with a jolt. He grabbed the mech by the wheeled shoulders and whirled him around, into the small navigation room adjacent to the cell block door.

"HEY! What are you doing? Please don't hurt me! I'm not the skyjacker, I'm just trying to get back home! Don't-"

"Cut the scrap, bud," Rodimus said, heedless of the leader of the Powermasters, Getaway, drawing his double-barreled shotgun from subspace.

"Rodimus, put him down now!" he shouted, but the Autobot Leader ignored him.

"I know about _every_ _one_ of your business transactions. Why'd the Rebels want you to jack the ship . . . _Doubledealer?_ "

The Destroyer immediately stopped begging Rodimus for life and chuckled slowly, creepily. He blinked once, his optics turning pure white - the color of a Neutral's. His Autobot symbol displayed proudly on his shoulder faded away, replacing itself with an onyx rubsign. "Now, now. Roddy, why ya suspectin' me right off the bat? Is it my rugged good looks? Seriously, mate, who's ta say our suspect's even yours truly?"

"It couldn't have been anyone else. You've got the resources for the masking device, and Cerebros's anti-Decepticon sensors couldn't pick you up _because you're not a Decepticon._ Answer my question, or I'll confide in this blustery gentlemech here about every single Decepticon victory over the war that was caused or assisted by you."

"I ain't afraid of an Iaconian wot wants ta be a Kiwi," Doubledealer spat defiantly, causing Getaway to visibly ruffle. "An' exactly how many Decepticon victr'ies I helped with d'ya got in that gold-crested noggin a' yours? Ain't nobody know the full extent o' my deals, mate. At some point, you'll be askin' for some 'elp a' yer own, sure as th' Sun's gonna rise tomorrow. An' when ya do, I'll be there for ya. Just call m'name an' I'll come a'runnin. Unless," the mercenary smiled a cold grin, "someone richer than ya wants yer 'ead on a platter. Remember tha', mate - my loyalty lies with th' highest bidder."

Doubledealer reached up faster than the Autobot Leader could react and pressed a button on the side of his helm, disappearing into nothingness and leaving Rodimus, Getaway, and the afterimage of the bounty hunter's piercing white optics flashing in and out of Rodimus's vision.

* * *

"There! I'm detecting a spatial jump ahead!" a mech by the name of Ironhide - not the war veteran from the War on Earth but a Generation Two Terran-made model, named after the brave Autobot infantry commander - said excitedly.

"So'm I," an AFE ground model grunted.

"Cerebros, make course toward the warp, please. Where does it lead?" Rodimus asked.

"It says 'Nebulan Sector', sir. Frag." a tall Destroyer by the name of Sureshot swore.

Though Rodimus longed to echo Sureshot's vulgar sentiment, he had to keep face as a confident, mature leader. It had been a vorn since the incident with Doubledealer, during which the crew had managed, with their combined efforts, to get most of the way back to Cybertron. This would be the last disorienting spatial warp, from whence they would be able to utilize Nebulos's state-of-the-art aerospace system to make it the rest of the way back to Cybertron. Unfortunately, the Nebulan government was bureaucratic and corrupt under the management of their new President, which yielded frustrating times filling out forms at best at and outrageous fines at worst.

"Take the warp," Rodimus commanded, thinking of the paperwork he'd have to clear with the atrocious Nebulan Space Agency before he could get back home.

One slightly nauseating stretch of space and time later and the golden expanse of Nebulos spread out underneath them. The rings of the vacation planet arced into space, mingling with the busy aero-spaceport that they had entered. _FortMax's_ solar shielding glazed over the bridge windows and reduced the incinerating glare of one of Nebulos's two suns to a simple bright, large orb, much like the same celestial body that warmed Earth as viewed on a cloudless day. Spaceships of all shapes and sizes drifted through the "airspace," occasionally descending to the planet below.

"You've entered the Nebulan Sector. What is your species and purpose here, Vessel C-114?" a clear voice in Universal English came over the _Fortress's_ intercom.

"We're Cybertronians. We wish to utilize your aerospace system to return to the Cybertronian Sector." Rodimus replied in the same language.

"I have no official records of your ship leaving any planet, much less your own in the past five universal months, Cybertronian."

"This ship suffered a sky - ground? - er, skyjack and took off without authorization," the Autobot leader said. "Luckily, we managed to apprehend the perpetrator and now we are returning to our home planet. Request clearance."

"I feel pity for you," the space traffic controller said robotically. Rodimus shuddered at the lack of thought evident in the young man's voice, who had evidently been brainwashed by years of government propaganda. "I'm sending the necessary materials for you, please wait. Until completion of the forms, you may levitate in your vessels' respective place. Thank you for visiting our planet. Hail Zarak."

The console in front of Rodimus lit up with an information pack. He let out a deep vent, turning to the small number of mechs in the bridge.

"Take five, guys, this'll take a while."

* * *

Rodimus was halfway into the work when a flash off of the _Fortress's_ port side caught his optic. He knew instantly it was another ship using the very same spatial warp that they had, so he dismissed the dark, angular spaceship and returned to the auto-translated Zarak Institute questions. _Please describe specifications of vessel, up to and including weapons (if applicable), crew count, structural and/or computational weaknesses, and resilience to standard laser fire . . ._

 **BOOM!**

A strong tremor ran throughout the entirety of the ship as the documents in front of him instantly faded and the lights flickered out above his head. He leaped to his feet, grabbing for the public address system mouthpiece.

"What's going on? Status update!" he barked as another tremor struck the ship.

"We're being attacked! The engines are takin' hits ta make Unicron cringe!" Crosshairs shouted back from his self-imposed position in the gunning deck.

"Initiate counterattacks! Our orbit'll decay if those thrusters get destroyed!" Rodimus commanded as he pulled up as many exterior cameras as he could. There was the dark purple ship to the aft, firing volley after volley of energy from their nose-mounted proton cannons into the _Fortress's_ enormous thrusters.

"Cerebros, does this baby have rear guns?"

"Of course! They were built to keep pirates and mercenaries from stabbing us in the back!" the owner of the prison ship said.

"Then get them online!" Rodimus didn't wait for Cerebros's reply before he took hold of the manual override controls. He pulled the heavy yoke that deployed as hard as he, with his Matrix-borne strength, could, straining as the giant prison ship slowly tilted back and left. All the while, the AI of the ship gave somber reports over the intercom.

"REAR SHIELDS BREACHED. THRUSTERS TAKING SEVERE DAMAGE. REPAIR DRONE DEPLOY- *errr* -FIREWALLS BREACHED. UNAUTHORIZED TRANSMISSION DETECTED."

A familiar cold, high voice came over the very same PA system - a voice that Rodimus had heard far too many times during his long and storied campaigns.

"Consider this a final condemnation, Rodimus Prime - from the late Decepticon Empire, from Unicron the Chaos Bringer, Devourer of Worlds, from the Autobots and Neutrals you failed to protect, and from the New Decepticon Order that shall rise triumphant over your broken corpse! I have finally won!"

Rodimus glanced at the sole computer still working as he pulled, which displayed the ship that fired one last killing blow into the _FortMax's_ thrusters.

"COMPLETE PROPULSION SYSTEM FAILING. RETRO ROCKETS SHUTTING DOWN. ENTERING NEBULAN EXOSPHERE . . ."

"C'mon . . . c'mon . . ."

" **Target locked.** "

"Fire! Fire everything we have!" he shouted as the _Fortress Maximus_ began to fall. A fusillade to rival anything Rodimus had ever seen burst out of the ship's port side, impacting the aggressing Rebel warship with enough firepower to rip a normal fighter spacecraft to shreds. But the Decepticon battlecraft was no ordinary spaceship, so it was simply pummeled with heavy fire and it, too, began to fall, done in by the _FortMax's_ superior artillery.

The _Fortress_ fell quickly, and before Rodimus knew it, he was staring down the dark form of a mountain as it came closer and closer, illuminated by the comet-tail that the ship was turning into. Night wreathed the land in blackness and the gunners were still shooting at the Decepticon warship, but Rodimus could tell the Rebels would not land nearby, at least.

"Brace for crash! Brace for-" was all he could say before the _Fortress_ rammed into the mountain with force enough to break it into fourths.

War, as it always will between two different groups of Cybertronians, had been borne upon this well-known vacation planet. Saying that it would never be the same again would be putting it mildly.

* * *

Brainstorm snapped out of his memories, rewinding them and storing them back where they were supposed to be even as he stood up excitedly. Remarkably, the long period of laziness had actually done him some good, as now his conscience was entirely clear.

"Of course! I'm unbelievably stupid! Er, of course not . . . I AM A GENIUS!" he crowed to the walls and the infuriating blank protoform laying on the table.

 _Just you wait, ya irritating piece of dynametal,_ he thought, mostly incoherently, as he popped the latches on his trusty nearby briefcase. The light from within bathed his faceplates in green light as he carefully extracted a small machine and its accompanying notes.

This device had three spindles protruding from its tiny form, each tipped with small scalpel-like blades. A tiny column jutted out from its center, with a wide red button taking up most of the body. Brainstorm speed-read the notes, understanding in an instant what had to be done.

He closed the briefcase, snapping it shut with a _click,_ and whirled about, crossing the room with air in his pedes. There, on the table, lay the protoform that had vexed the Engineer for so long.

"Let's see what you think of this, my annoying friend," he said, on the verge of maniacal laughter. He gingerly situated the tiny device on the tip of the gray spark and pushed the button.

Like a little ant-droid's legs, the appendages came together, digging the three small blades into the surface of the spark. For a moment, Brainstorm witnessed the cylindrical body of the device glow blue, but it was soon far overshadowed by the spark itself finally blazing to life.

"Yes! YES!" he whooped excitedly, tears welling in his optics. He instantly pinged Hardhead with roughly ten energetic comm requests before the AFE Ground build picked up the line.

"What?" he grunted irritably, keeping his words short as always.

"Hardhead, I've done it! It's ready!" Brainstorm said, wiping his optics in joy and relief.

"I can't hear you over your girlishness. Slow down."

On another day, Brainstorm may have been irked by the blunt Warrior's responses, but he was too cheerful at the moment. "I've managed to spark the suit. It still needs code, armor, a T-cog, and a cockpit, but from here on out it should be simply a doddle!"

An emotion of mild surprise flicked across the basic bond that he and Hardhead shared at the moment. The Warrior's verbal reply was much more subdued. "Huh."

"That's all you have to say? Really? I just rewrote the laws of Cybertronian technobiology and all you can say is 'Huh'? Any road . . . About your operation, Hardhead."

He turned, casting a gaze at the secondary surgical berth that the _Fortress Maximus_ had in its small medical bay. "How does next Thursday work for you?"

FINally

* * *

 **Heart of the Demons:** Good, I'm glad I didn't drown you with my bad accent impersonations!

* * *

I hope all of you out there enjoyed this super-super (super) long installment in the Rebirth. If you have anything to ask, say or scream about either the prose or the art, please review and I'll get to improving my work as soon as I can! Remember, Knights Temporal belong to F-for-feasant-design and you should look at his stuff. The man is pure genius. Thank you for reading my story! Until the next chapter, dear readers!

-The Doctor (Do)


	5. Growing Pains

**Author's Note:** Doctor's log, eighteenth of May, 2018. I've managed to slip away from my real-life work for a moment, just long enough to upload the next chapter of the Rebirth. . . . and upload the corresponding piece of art to my DeviantArt account. For anyone who may find this, it can be found under the user Dr-Do. The companion piece is Resistor Duros.

Oh dear. They're coming.

No! NO! The countless Algebra assignments! The English research paper! They're here! They're on me! Must . . . upload . . . chapter! _**SHEEAGH!**_

*end log*

-The Doctor (Do)

P.S. A tenth is about a foot. It's the Cybertronian equivalent of an inch. By the way, thanks for all the views, guys! I'm up to 416 on DeviantArt alone! You're the best!

* * *

05:10:06

It was dark. That was an unequivocal fact. But would it be dark enough to keep a veil over his mistakes?

Funnily enough, this was also a perfect place to conduct a séance, so he bookmarked that for later, when he could slip away from his ward, if not for just a vorn.

His footsteps echoed with every fall, despite his aristocratic gait. He walked around an enormous boiler that puffed steam and enjoyed the radiant warmth that felt so good on his plating, but just as soon as it had come, it was gone and replaced with the clammy dampness of the Nebulan Capitol's utility chamber.

Such matters were, however, unimportant. It was vital that he return to his profaned surgery ward as soon as time would allow, before the Organic realized that he was missing.

Mindwipe ducked under a rather low pipe and arrived at the utility room's dense chain-link door, designed for life forms a little taller than three-fourths of a mechanometer, and thus slightly shorter than himself. He needed to stoop lowly to fit through the door, folding his wings back to clear the last couple of tenths. When he was entirely through, he rose to a kneel and turned, replacing the lock that had previously been held in his subspace. The mechanism was tiny in comparison to his servos, but Mindwipe was still able to manipulate it to some extent. Enough to close it, at least.

He raised his fist and rapped twice on the door, as hard as he could. Whatever compound this Nebulan metal was made out of, it was harder and denser than durasteel and didn't even dent. Good. It would be able to stand up against abuse. The echo still rang hollowly in the Basement's vaulted ceiling but ceased quickly. Then, suddenly, Mindwipe became terribly aware of someone behind him.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" a sickeningly soft voice remarked, amused, as Mindwipe whirled around with his claws bared.

There he was, the hated Organic, wearing an ornately woven dark red robe to complement his pale-green skin. He wore a black four-pointed crown with two long spines rising from his forehead, situated neatly on his braids of long, white hair. That irritating politician's smirk made him look like the cat that had caught the mouse, and his borderline luminescent yellow eyes only helped to draw the parallels to a feral, stupid beast. Galvatron, somehow looking even worse since Mindwipe had last seen him, stood silently by the President, shooting weak red sparks from his tilted head every few seconds.

"That's funny. I don't remember calling a plumber to fix the pipes just yet. Galvy, did you do it for me? That was nice of you."

"How did you manage to sneak up on me? I should have heard you," Mindwipe asked, relaxing minutely but still not sheathing his claws.

The Organic sighed. "Clearly, we still need to work on that 'Greetings, Lord Zarak,' that we talked about. Never mind. How's the Hybrid process turning out? Are the materials we provided proving . . . satisfactory?"

Mindwipe got a sense of mild nausea. "I have not yet made any progress. Ze test subjects zat vere provided all, ah . . . terminated as soon as zey vere brought online. Zere bodies could not handle ze shock of vaking as a machine. If I vas given more subjects-"

"SILENCE!" Zarak shouted, causing Mindwipe to falter. He wasn't used to being told to shut up, and his recent experiences with the Nebulan President had taught him that he wasn't a fan. "I don't care what you're doing back here cuddled up close to my septic tank! You _shouldn't_ be here, but I, in my infinite wisdom, have elected to pardon you! What I _do_ care about, however, is the fact that I'm still in this old, worn body! The Nebulan people remain skeptical of my rightful rule! They say I'm weak when the ReZidence cameras are turned down, I know it! The bloody Terrans are still flooding in and infecting my people with thoughts of democracy!"

Zarak took a deep, shuddering breath. "Every second you delay is another moment those Autobots, the only ones that can stop us, have to find us! I've upheld my end of the bargain. I've supplied the wastes of space for you to turn all robotic and whatnot. I've given you blueprints for our new bodies. _So why don't I have gears instead of useless joints by now?"_

Mindwipe remained silent.

"Don't answer that," Zarak huffed, lifting a finger on his right hand. "This is unacceptable, Cybertronian. I expect you to have a working, _live_ Hybrid within five days. I trust I don't need to tell you what will happen if you fail me again."

With that, Zarak glared at Galvatron and began to head back between the tall freestanding buildings made for the Decepticons, which contained barracks, a wash rack, and an armory, which was locked to the Decepticons as of yet. Galvatron followed stiffly, and Mindwipe could sense his rage, simmering just below the surface. Much like his own.

"You vouldn't kill me," Mindwipe said after the Organic. "If you did, you vould never be able to become what you desire."

"Don't be so sure," Zarak yelled back. "There's plenty of up-and-comers at the Institute who'd be more than happy to carry out a direct order from their god."

* * *

04:12:15

Brainstorm dashed inside the medical bay, tapping the DOOR LOCK button on his way in. He dumped his new toy on the surgical slab, rubbing his hands together in excitement. It hadn't been easy for him to acquire it, but he had eventually managed to nick it from its rightful owner.

Crosshairs hadn't even noticed his precious grenade launcher go missing from the _Fortress's_ armory yet, but with his borderline OCD when it came to weapons, Brainstorm knew it wouldn't be long before the gunsmith noticed that his favorite boomstick was gone. He had to move quickly. His styli felt warm in his hands as he set to work, cutting the gun into easily-collapsible pieces, with the occasional glance toward the newly-sparked protoform lying a few tenths away.

"Whatcha workin' on there?"

"EEK!" The sudden voice made Brainstorm jump. He whirled about, pointing his laser scalpel in front of him and waving it menacingly around in the air. The blade left a trail of white smoke as he searched for the intruder.

Ah! There it was, one of the members of the Resistance. Brainstorm recognized him as one of the Nebulans that had volunteered to undergo the complete process. The organic was tall and thin, green-tinged skin stretched tight over his skull. His hair, coffee-brown with a streak of gray running through his bangs, was what the Engineer would best describe as "wavy." He wore an immaculate and tastefully colored wardrobe that somehow complemented his overall weathered look nicely.

"Why are you here? Did Crosshairs send you?" Brainstorm asked, dropping his voice to a whisper. He looked around, as if he expected to see the cantankerous Weapons Expert to be behind a blank protoform. Hiding in the air vent, maybe. From what Brainstorm had heard, it had happened before.

"Nah, I came alone. Don't sweat it," Tyler Solomon assured Brainstorm, causing the Engineer to warily sheath his scalpel. "I came to see how the Headmaster thing's doing."

Tyler stepped to Brainstorm's side to better view what the Engineer had been working for vorns on. After a few seconds, during which the Nebulan released a long whistle, he spoke. "Wow. You've certainly been busy, haven't you?"

"Tell me about it," Brainstorm scoffed, tossing the deactivated laser scalpel into subspace. "It took me forty-two vorns to get the spark to take by itself. I was working on adrenaline and high-grade for a while before 'Domey took that thing off my hands. Lovin' every moment of it, though."

"Nice. I don't have a clue how long a vorn is, but it seems like quite the test," Tyler replied, flashing an easy smile. "By the way, is this the final version of the Duros suit?"

Brainstorm was taken aback. "Er, no. Why?"

The Nebulan shrugged, bony shoulders rising and falling in the blink of an eye. "No reason, nevermind. I was just wondering, do you have any differently-colored glass for the lightbar? Like, oh, I don't know, a subdued light blue, maybe?"

"It's nanite gloss. The stuff responds to a program. Why do you want to know?"

"Well, to be honest, the bright red color you've got right now's kind of an eyesore . . . ." he replied. "It'd look a lot better with a nice analogous light blue, in my opinion. Sorry."

"We'll see about _that,_ " Brainstorm said, already getting behind the Duros suit, where, fortunately, Crosshairs was not hiding. It was an awkward fit with the riot shield mounted on the suit's back, but the Engineer managed to get in an acceptable position. The suit felt cold as he flipped open a small maintenance panel on the back of its head. He squinted into the various tiny access ports that lay underneath, thinking for a moment how easy this task would have been for Chromedome.

Brainstorm was no mnemosurgeon, but he figured using some lockpicks that he had taken off of a dead colleague would work okay for simply changing a proto's color scheme. Primus, why did they make these ports so small? He could barely see the minuscule hole to change the gloss nanites . . .

FZZT

Tyler gasped. "That's perfect! It looks so much better now! Good job!"

Brainstorm untangled himself from the suit and reassumed his position by the Nebulan.

"Hm. You're right, it does look a lot better than it was . . ." he mused, surprised that an organic had noticed something that had escaped even his vast intellect.

"You know, Brainstorm, not to be rude, but . . . I see a couple other things that could use some touching up."

The Engineer raised an optical ridge. This would be interesting. He only hoped that the Nebulan would leave before Crosshairs noticed his gun was gone.

* * *

04:18:30

The ornately decorated elevator doors slid open, a loud _ding_ heralding his entrance.

Blofis Zarak hobbled out of the large Capitol elevator, his cobalt-blue crutches clicking with every step he took. His secretary, an immensely skilled Reamian by the name of Ms. Calanthe, followed him, after taking a moment to withdraw his Executive Clearance card from its slot next to the shiny control panels.

Every time he entered his half-brother's grandiose underground chamber, Blofis's breath was taken away. Even with his gangrenous leg festering away in his cast, even with his shattered kneecap, he couldn't help but be amazed at the impressive air of the Capitol basement.

The elevator in of itself was lavish, its mahogany paneling accented with strips of gold. The decorative designs among the entirety of the interior worked to convey the power and majesty of the Zarak Institute, much like the enormous Capitol building's own architecture.

Really, it was almost a shame that no one except members of the Hive and select security guards would ever see the chamber beneath the Capitol. The glorified vestibule before the actual cavern took the form of a grand ballroom, laid over with the same mahogany that paneled the elevator. In the center of the floor was an extra-large Zarak crest, which was a stylized "Z" surrounded by sharp-looking shapes. Statues of all sorts were scattered throughout the ballroom, each one displaying Blofis's half-brother in awe-inspiring poses that he knew the President had never been able to achieve, even before he lost the use of most of his body.

Blofis always found the fact that this area was a ballroom humorous, as only a few members of the Hive had the mobility to enjoy a dance. Until recently, he had been one of those happy few and had, several times, brought along a pretty partner and some music to dance with to meetings, much to the chagrin of the more infirm Hive members. Now he doubted he'd ever be able to do that again, at least until the Cybertronian managed to squeeze out a new body for him. It would be nice to finally be free of the infection that was slowly devouring his ruined right leg.

He stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that stood at the far end of the ballroom and straightened his bow tie. He wore his favorite white Scarifian silk suit with a black vest and tie underneath the waist-length suit coat. Though he hated the crutches that he needed to rely on to walk, he found that their iridescent blue color provided a nice complement to his usual ensemble, which was one of the last outfits sold by the Solomon Tailor Shop in downtown Nebulon before Zarak had forced it to go out of business in an ill-advised decision that had drawn ire from even the various members if the Hive. Blofis ensured that his black hair was in an acceptable part, then flashed his old familiar grin as an experiment. It was tighter than usual, drawn taut with the pain of his leg falling apart and his rubbed-raw underarms, but he figured he wouldn't be doing much smiling in his half-brother's presence anyways.

"How do I look, Ms. Calanthe?" he asked, letting the grin gently fall from his face.

"You look fantastic, sir," she replied as Blofis began to hobble to the main chamber. "Don't forget, you have a meeting with Mr. Bricant at one, so you should probably hurry up with the President-for-life . . ."

"Ms. Calanthe, if there's anything I've learned from twenty-nine years with Oshana, it's that you should _never_ count on him being brief, even if he says it'll be quick. Just tell Marcus I'm busy with the Lord of Egocentrism. He'll understand."

And there he was. As was the design of the chamber, a broad stretch of catwalk jutted into the air for a few yards, allowing for an unimpeded view of the Basement. Below and to the right, the long Hive conference table sat underneath an equally lengthy fluorescent white light. It ran the length of several cars and was complete with chairs for every one of the Hive members.

Straight ahead was the aerial reception bay, marked by four red lights in the dark ceiling. It was closed at the time, but one of the spaces was taken up by a small private jet. Oshana and he wouldn't be the only Hive members here today. To the right, deep in the shadows, one could just make out the hulking shapes of the Decepticons, most of whom appeared to be asleep, among the various utilitarian open-air living partitions. Clearly, Oshana hadn't yet allowed the majority of the Cybertronians access to the sparse barracks which were set up.

 _Apparently, robots do sleep,_ he mused as he approached his least favorite part of the entire building. It was a long set of wrought-iron stairs leading all the way down to the floor far below.

He cursed, as he now did every single time he was forced to make the descent. "-Moron. Whoever told Oshana this was a good idea should be shot."

"I wholeheartedly agree, sir," Calanthe said, still seeming mildly affronted by Blofis's impressive array of swear words.

"Even back when this place was built, half of us were crippled already. Why in the name of Zetca would they make a flarging six-story spiral staircase for us to go down?"

"I don't know, Mr. Zarak. Do you need any help?"

"No!" Blofis shouted. Calanthe did not jump - Reamians were the dominant predators on their planet, a trait that had been passed down through generations - but he could tell that his answer had been too harsh. "I'm sorry . . . no, thank you. I'll be fine. Just stay close behind me so I don't fall, OK?"

When Calanthe had responded in the affirmative, Blofis turned and began to descend the long staircase, focused entirely on his task and ignoring the burning pain in his arms.

Finally, he reached the bottom and needed to rest. He limped to his seat on the table next to Caleb Berst, who appeared to be reviewing a new script, and lowered himself painfully into the chair.

"Argh. Hello, Mr. Berst. You're looking well," he said, rubbing his sore arms.

"Why, thank you, Mr. Zarak," the actor replied with an exaggerated flourish. "The same to you. What brings you here on this wonderful day, may I ask?"

"The Hybrid project," Blofis answered. "My doctor called me yesterday and said they're going to have to amputate my flarging leg if the gangrene gets any worse. I woke up in the middle of the night last week. The thing pussed right through my shorts while I was asleep, Caleb. You've got it rough, but at least _you_ don't have to watch your flesh rotting off of your leg."

"How disgusting!" Caleb gasped, throwing a hand over his mouth, then settling back down and absentmindedly gazing at the dozing alien robots. After a while, he continued his thoughts. "Interesting, isn't it? Soon we won't have to worry about such things, and we'll be like them . . . I wonder what my new body will look like."

"You're not the only one wanting to know. I need to see Oshana. Do you know where he's at?"

Caleb seemed to think this over for a moment, stroking his short beard as if Blofis had just posed the most interesting question in the universe to him. Then, he abruptly shot his finger into the air. "A-ha! Yes, Mr. Zarak. The President-for-life you seek is in there!" He pointed the same triumphant finger toward the massive green-and-purple temple at the north end of the room. "I believe our Great Lord God-Emperor Zarak is either in the throne room or atop Solace Hill. You know how he is."

"Darkh right I do," Blofis said, making to get up.

"Oh, Mr. Zarak. I nearly forgot to ask."

Blofis sighed quietly. "Yes, Mr. Berst?"

"Where is your secretary? Is she not feeling well today?"

"Are you kidding me? Look, Caleb, I know you're practicing for your new movie, but you can snap out of it around me. She's obviously right-"

Blofis trailed off as he gestured behind him, indicating nothing - and no one - but empty air.

"Ah . . . Ms. Calanthe? Where are you?" he called, a little louder than normal, but the only answer he got was his echo, bouncing off the walls of the basement, and the crackle of cinders from the Temple's ridiculous lava moat.

" . . . Seela?"

* * *

01:09:15

The gravel crunched under their feet as they approached the unassuming section of rock inlaid into the rock face. Tiny clouds of ash spiraled up from the ground with every step they took. Already, little sprouts of grass had begun to poke up from the black-and-white ground, reaching toward the sky like little green fingers.

The scene, as a whole, had an almost pastoral quality to it, and the only things that spoiled the view were the various sections of blackened hull that were scattered among the trees. The four men were all privately amazed at the sheer amount of enormous pieces of metal that the Autobots had managed to spare, and to anyone who hadn't been there that night, it would almost seem like the entire Autobot prison ship had completely shattered upon impact with the mountain. But Tyler Solomon, Texali Arcana, Häer Thenthow, and James Gort knew better.

Arcana stopped abruptly in front of a boulder and flung his hands in the air. He turned all the way around so the tiny hidden cameras could see that he was not, in fact, a Capitol agent.

"It's Tex. I'm here with James, Häer, and Tyler. We want to discuss the Headmaster project with Brainstorm."

"Password?" a raspy voice asked from behind the wall of rock.

"Micronus," Tex said. He didn't understand what it meant, but it was just rare enough to be used as an effective password. The sandy rock face shimmered a few times, then disappeared altogether, revealing a set of tall metal panels with horizontal slots about the breadth of his forearm halfway up their length. They, too, slid aside, revealing a war-battered red mech with the vague remains of a half-hearted sneer on his face. He held a rifle, one that looked like it was weighing him down, lightly in his hands with the practiced grip of a soldier.

"Hey, Pointblank!" James called enthusiastically. "You're looking good! How's that leg healing?"

"Not important, Gort. Get inside before those Capitol goons come back," the Cybertronian replied, one hand resting on the left gate.

The four men hurried inside at the robot's request and were amazed at what they saw. As Pointblank slammed the gate shut behind them, they took in the sights as quickly as they could. Two automated turrets had been placed just inside the gates. Red dots trained first on Häer, then moved to each of the Nebulans in turn before returning to a neutral position. To their immediate left, a rudimentary security room had been erected, a sheet of shimmery plastic-like material draped over its roof proving that it was still under construction.

They navigated the cavern, crossing pits still filled with rocket fuel via sheets of corrugated metal that had been set over them. Finally, the Nebulans entered the main cavern, which was simply a hive of activity. Cybertronians navigated the vast cavity with purpose, carrying out tasks undoubtedly assigned to them by Rodimus Prime. Around the towering fortress, which by all accounts seemed much larger than the cavern could have comfortably held, welding flames danced as minor repairs and perfections were conducted on the exterior.

Perhaps it was just military routine for any new bases established in the field, but it seemed to the four Resistance members that the Autobots were planning to stay on Nebulos for a very long time.

* * *

01:09:08

Brainstorm was putting the final touch on his most recent invention when the door opened without even bothering to give him a warning. A sudden idea popped up in his various innovative subroutines, but he ignored it for the time being. As he turned to face his guest, he flared his wings out as far as he could, then lunged across the small room when he saw it was merely the four organics.

"Don't just stop in the middle of my doorway! Come in and for Primus's sake, close the door!" he exclaimed, all but punching the door controls.

"Whoa, what's the matter? Oh. I see. Sorry," Tyler said as soon as he saw what lay on the surgical slab.

"Oh dear, him again," Brainstorm muttered, mostly to himself. "To what do I owe the pleasure, gentlemen? Please, take a seat."

The four men looked around, but the only chairs or other suitable sitting surface were covered with machinery. Tex, Tyler, and James eventually decided to take a seat on the metal floor, but Häer remained standing. "Arcana and I have a proposal to make regarding the binary bonding of Duros to . . . er, Hardhead. You may wish to sit down yourself, Brainstorm. This might take a while."

* * *

01:08:58

Ten minutes later, Brainstorm stood and crossed over to the Duros suit. "So what you're telling me, in short, is that your research division's already made a device that quickly and easily binary bonds a Nebulan to another person?"

"Correct," Häer said.

"Primus, Thenthow, you could have told me that without half of the technobabble and I would have understood it. You sound like Highbrow if he knew what he was saying, and that frightens me."

James nodded. "Yeah, Mr. Thenthow, that was a little much even for me. You could have summarized it without too much trouble, you know." Tex and Tyler were in agreement and quietly nodded their heads.

"I apologize," the scientist said, getting a dreamy look in his warm gray eyes. "I sometimes get carried away in the description of practical applications of science and math . . . Er, yes, sorry. Although it was created before my time as CEO, I have all of the files and paperwork associated with the subject from before the Institute seized our prototypes. They've replicated them and administered the implants _en masse_ to the high-level guards and Enforcers who are firmly situated in the Institute's pockets. The implants connect whatever the personnel see or hear to a receiver, in these cases one sole person who oversees all operations from a control room. However, the receivers could be integrated directly into your helms and catered to solely connect to your partners."

"So if the Institute's still mass-producing these things, they've gotta have a spare crate or two sitting around the Ministry of Science, right?" James asked, running his fingers through his tousled hair.

"Without a doubt, Gort. But the chances of the Institute allowing the likes of even me to access the implants are slim to none. I'm afraid any of you would have substantially greater difficulty attempting to get to a shipment. This isn't a problem that can be solved by a plucky attitude and a scholarship for Ramshead, you realize."

"Then we take it from them - without their knowledge," Gort said with finality, rising to his feet.

"There is literally no way you'll be able to infiltrate the Ministry without getting caught, James. I personally had a hand in designing the revamped security protocols. If you were to go anywhere but the lobby without permission, you'd be apprehended and sent to the Rock faster than you could react. The mere thought-"

"Who said it'd be me?" Gort interjected, cutting Häer off. "Sorry, by the way. I wouldn't ever try to invade any Institute installation, much less the Ministry of Science. Fortunately for all of us, though, I know a guy."

* * *

03:18:10

"Oshana!" Blofis Zarak shouted as he opened the ornate double doors to the Throne Room with as much force as he could muster.

"Oh, hello, brother," the President said affably, sitting in the ridiculously oversized throne that dominated the room. Metal-studded drafts littered the desk that had been placed in front of him by the aides who were currently standing close by, ready at Zarak's beck-and-call. "I was just reexamining the body designs for the Hybrid project. Would you like to see Grax's new form? It's really quite funny, I suppose-"

"I don't want to hear about your darn Hybrid project right now, Oshana!" Blofis interrupted, now at the foot of the throne.

Lord Zarak blinked once, his blank yellow eyes searching his half-brother's face in confusion. "I see. You want a peek at your _own_ body, don't you?"

"I literally could not care less at the moment! I've been here a whole day and Ms. Calanthe still hasn't returned from wherever she's gone!" he shouted desperately, his voice cracking on the last word. He took a moment to collect himself, then continued in his even "business tone."

"Look, President, I know that we all need to make sacrifices if this alliance thing's gonna get off the ground. I suppose that I should have made it clear to your puppets from the get-go that my secretary was off limits. But that doesn't change the fact that she's either been killed or is undergoing your stupid Hybrid process."

"I'll stop you there, Blofis. How do you know that the Decepticons took poor Ms. Camlock? She could have just stepped out for a smoke break, you realize."

Blofis ground his teeth. "Her name's Calanthe. She would have told me if she wanted to leave the building, and I'm positive no little grocery run pops up in the middle of a work day and lasts twenty-four hours. Your toys need to be held responsible for the kidnapping of my secretary, Oshana - or I'm terminating the durasteel contract."

Zarak's unnerving yellow eyes glittered dangerously. He twitched a finger and the red stone at the back of his wheelchair began to glow dimly. A two-ton Cybertronian death machine suddenly soared over Blofis's head, landing by the throne and transforming into a broken-looking humanoid still trying its hardest to look dignified.

"Perhaps we should take a little walk, you and I," Zarak said, his normally soft and flowing voice clipped and cold. "A little fresh air might do well to clear our minds - and get us to think reasonably again."

* * *

03:18:07

 _Click, click, click._

Blofis limped alongside his half brother as the latter Zarak drove his electric wheelchair at what one could describe as a leisurely pace, if not for the fact that he was paralyzed. His robot slave - Galvatron, if memory served - strode tightly next to them, head bowed and tilted in shame and teeth clenched in anger as they passed the lurking Decepticons.

"You see, Blofis, as you said, we've all made sacrifices to get just where we are today. Peace Officer Scott had to get up in the middle of the night to scramble all of his underlings, and you know how difficult that is for him in his condition. Mr. Shrute's brain was jarred so early in the morning to compile a list of trajectories our metal friends may have followed after their unfortunate crash - with very little warning, as I'm sure you're aware. Mr. Berst back there in the meeting area was forced to delay production of his newest - ugh, _film_ to rush here from all the way across the planet." Zarak chuckled. "I myself had to lie awake at night, unable to sleep due to the construction noise coming from these little structures we walk among now."

Blofis scowled. He didn't know how much more of Oshana's mildly condescending tone he could put up with. It was as the President though him nothing more than a small, rebellious child who didn't fully understand what was happening.

"You are not the only one to experience loss before this relationship can be fully realized, brother dear. We have all made sacrifices; even at this young dawn."

He couldn't stand it anymore. "Nothing you just said even comes close to losing a secretary - a friend."

At this, Zarak stopped and turned about slowly, to face his half-brother. "Blofis, please! If - and I'm not confirming anything at this point - _if_ poor Miss Sea Clamp _was_ taken by one of my Decepticons, I'm sure it was for a good cause! No one here, not in the brig, that is, would have the gall to do something as stupid as this, which really only leaves my doctor. He's obviously going to use your worker's body to make a Hybrid, which means she's likely still alive! Who knows? Perhaps this will be the breakthrough, Blofis! She may turn out to be the very first Hybrid. Then you may join her once you yourself ascend."

"And if Seela isn't the breakthrough?" Blofis returned hotly.

"Well . . ." Oshana's trademark sleazy grin flitted onto his face. "Does a cyborg god really need a secretary?"

Momentarily, Blofis actually considered sinking his fist into the cocky, self-assured grin, but a faint, explosive sound coming from a few yards behind him derailed that train of thought.

"Exactly. No need to terminate that durasteel contract after all, eh?"

"Quiet! I just heard something . . . it sounded like a curse," he said, listening to make sure it wasn't an errant puff of steam or anything else. As he expected, the sound did not happen again. He turned, somewhat awkwardly thanks to his crutches, and identified the nearest open-air utility structure. The sign above the simplistic, yet oversized fiberglass door read SURGERY WARD in clear Universal English.

Blofis Zarak purposefully hobbled toward the ward, ignoring his half-brother's cries after him.

 _Click._

As he approached, he heard a quiet voice seemingly narrating a report.

 _Click._

"Lab report seven one-C, six hundred and fifty-three hours. As vith ze others, Subject Seven, formerly Seela Calanthe based on materials found on person, perished after exactly fifteen minutes off life support, during vich time she vas fully coherent."

 _No!_ Blofis thought, disbelieving his own ears. He walked faster.

 _Clickclickclickclick._ He was just a few steps away by this point. The voice abruptly stopped as he drew close. Zarak followed him as Blofis unlocked the surgery ward with his backup all-access card. What he saw when the door swung open caused his heart to stick in his craw.

Directly across from the ward entrance, a complete robotic form was propped upright on a medical slab. It was clearly meant to be female and was much sleeker and slimmer than most of the Decepticons that he had seen around the Basement. Nine-inch claws were fixed at the tips of the slender fingers and toes. Black antennae on either side of her head gave the impression of the drastically pointed ears that Ms. Calanthe had possessed in life. The body appeared to be about a head shorter than Mindwipe, yet taller than the other mech in the room, a gray-and-black Decepticon who was himself only about eight feet tall. As Blofis watched in horror, the colors adorning the body - acid green with tasteful silver accents - faded slowly to a dull, grayish shade. The two Cybertronians in the room and by extension, his half-brother coming up behind him, may have been absent for all the attention he gave them.

Blofis wanted desperately to believe what he saw was not what remained of Seela Calanthe, but the dark green dress that she had worn just a day ago, laid flat on a small table, proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the body lying dead on the slab was her.

"Vat are you doingk here, organic? Ve are in ze middle of an operation!" the taller black mech snarled indignantly, but Blofis could barely hear over the white-hot rage that was building inside of his head.

"You killed my flarging secretary!" he howled, leaping forward as best as he could, only to be stopped short by a force that gripped his crutches in an inescapable hold. If not for his anger-induced white knuckle grasp on the handles, he would have toppled to the ground.

"Now, now, brother. I can't let you attack my biomechanical engineer. That wouldn't translate well to troop morale."

"He . . . killed . . . Seela!" Blofis shunted out through clenched teeth.

"I thought I told you to drop that self-destructive train of thought - oh dear me."

Oshana released his half-brother in astonishment when he saw what lay within the surgery ward. His pale eyes widened as he took in the full scene.

For a moment, no one spoke. Blofis was too angry to even move, and Zarak appeared entirely focused on the inert body tied to the surgical slab. The black Decepticon's eyes darted between Blofis, Oshana, and the silent Galvatron, and the smaller gray mech seemed wholly uncomfortable with the situation.

Finally, the President-for-life broke the tense silence. "Bat-boy . . . what have you done?"

All hell broke loose. Charged words flew through the air like laser beams.

"What has he done?! He's killed my secretary is what he's done!"

"She vos an unfortunate casualty of ze Hybrid process - vich, by ze vay, YOU are fundingk!"

"Unfortunate casualty? That's all her life is reduced to now? Seela lived, breathed and died - just like you will have done after I'm done with you!"

"A childish threat. I admit I should have informed you of my intentions, but time is short. Vith every moment zat is vasted, ze Autobots grow stronger."

"What right do you have to decide who lives or dies, Cybertronian?" Blofis screamed.

"I'll just see myself out now if that's all right with the parties involved . . ."

"You will stay, Doomshot," Galvatron snarled, three intensely bright red sparks shooting from his drawn face.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please calm down-"

"Vat right do _you_ have to imprison my comrades and I like zis?" the engineer challenged. "I truthfully regret ze passing of Ms. Seela, but it has been for a good cause. I know vat vent wrongk, and I have an idea on how to fix it. At zis rate, I should only need von more test subject before I can begin on ze members of your organization."

"You're not even worthy of speaking Seela's name!" Blofis shouted. He turned on his heel, crutches clicking and flashing, and leaned down as far as he could to stare his wheelchair-bound half-brother in the face.

"Kill him, Oshana! You have plenty of youngbloods at the Institute who'd flarging trip over themselves to serve you and would leave far less innocent people dead in their wake! End this overgrown sack of bolts' good-for-nothing life!"

"Down, boy," was Zarak's mild reply. He drove his wheelchair to a nearby table and idly inspected a schematic datapad - an impressive feat, considering it was floating in midair.

"Mindwipe . . . you do realize that what you did was wrong, and taking the life of a productive member of Nebulan society has its repercussions." It was not a question but a statement.

Mindwipe blinked, shocked again at Zarak's use of his real designation instead of a derogatory nickname. "I take responsibility for ze death, _Lord Zarak_ ," he said, putting as much loathing into the Organic's name as he could. "However, I vill complete a functioning Hybrid within two cycles if I vos given but von more test subject."

Zarak's eyes narrowed to tiny slits and the datapad slammed into the table, atop a pile of others. "The audacity of it all! First, you waste time in my utility room instead of doing what you're SUPPOSED to. Next, you kill my dear brother's secretary and now, you ask for more materials! Soon, Decepticon, you will feel the consequences of this _incredibly_ ill-advised decision, and you will suffer."

Blofis smiled grimly. Even if he couldn't have saved Ms. Calanthe, he would still be able to watch as his half-brother's unreal power crushed this psychopathic Decepticon into the size of a tin can. It would be positively splendid.

"But this is not that time."

The smile fell from his face faster than a brick thrown off of one of the Capitol's many spires. An outraged "What?" was all he could manage.

"I will call one of my 'freelance peacekeeping agents' in the city to round up _exactly_ one more dreg of society. Zetca knows we don't need any more of them. If you're really as close as you say you are, prove it to me. In no more than two and a half days, I want a Hybrid that literally walks off of the assembly line, talks, and doesn't die fifteen minutes off life support. Do I make myself clear?"

Mindwipe stiffened, a faint snarl crossing his face. "Yes, Lord Zarak."

"Good! By the way, our little talk two days ago still applies. I believe you have three days left. Use them with care, Cybertronian, or I will follow up on Blofis's interesting suggestion and crush you, slowly, until your remains won't fit in a thimble. Good day, Mindwipe."

"What?" Blofis said again, louder this time. "O-Oshana, you flarging cheat! You immoral pushover! I will kill you, Cybertronian! I will END YOUR LI - AARGH!"

At that moment, Galvatron scooped the livid Zarak up on a barked command from the President, an expression of utter disgust on his face plates making it all too clear that the Supreme Decepticon Leader would have liked nothing more than to utterly destroy both of the corrupt fleshlings. As it stood, he was none too gentle with the Nebulan he now held in his hand.

The Organic left the room without another word, Galvatron slamming the door behind them with a force enough to make the weak walls shudder. Mindwipe could still hear Blofis Zarak's threats, pained cries, and tears long after the three had left.

He glanced at the diminutive mech in the corner, who was intensely focused on a lavender airbrush. When several moments had passed, the smaller Decepticon finally looked up.

"What? Don't look at me, bud. I'm just the armor engineer."

"I do not have time for your passive-aggressive blame-deflection subroutines, Doomshot. Clear ze slab, but keep ze body somewhere safe for later examination." He crossed the small room and picked up the datapad that Zarak had briefly skimmed.

The schematic displayed what was essentially a fairly generic-looking amphibious Marine unit with several detractions from the original design, including spaces for vital organic functions and an enormous wide blade big enough for the unit to stand on, with an attached weapons mount. _Fraggit._ He'd have to take a favor out with Homicide.

A strange wave of confidence broke over Mindwipe. Maybe it was some cosmic force, an old deity whispering in his audios from wherever they resided, a vision of the future, or just plain hubris, but Mindwipe was not one to give host to the latter choice. For whatever reason, he knew this would be the project that would buy freedom for his allies.

He stood up straighter than normal. "Ve are about to make history."

"Dude, I'm not your slave. I'll clear the slab, but only because it's the only way I see out of this petro-rabbit hole," Doomshot replied, causing the Hypnotist to grit his denta in annoyance. _It is necessary to have an armor engineer to make new bodies,_ he thought, not for the first and definitely not for the last time.

* * *

01:07:04

The new interceptor let out a hideous cloud of black smoke as Duros pulled into his driveway after work. He had managed to convince Dakota Scott, the unpleasant leader of the Nebulan Secret Police and thus the man who had final say over anything that happened in the precinct, to lend him a new car under the cover story that he had swerved hard to miss a deer and cracked the already-weak axle, worn down over years of rigorous use. Scott had agreed to loan Duros another interceptor while the original was being fixed, but of course, the new piece-of-crap came with a heavy fine and a bad engine. The man at the shop, Zephyr something-or-other, had said that the engine would hold long enough for Duros's car to be repaired, but Duros seriously doubted the man's mechanical skill.

No matter. He stepped out of the car and was opening the mailbox when suddenly, one of his children came running over to greet him.

"Daddy! Daddy!" his youngest, Arian, shouted as he swept her up in a hug.

"Ah, hello, sugarplum!" he said, bouncing her gently on his arm. "How was school today?"

"Good. We took a test today. Everyone got a B minus, 'cause that was the av-er-age of everyone in the class. I didn't get a single question wrong!" she declared happily.

"Oh, Arian! Good job, I'm so proud of you!" Avoy said, letting his daughter down. "You're so smart, young lady. What say we have some of that Terran ice cream you like so much tonight after dinner, as a treat?"

"Yeah!" Arian said, her face lighting up with joy.

"Teacher says that's full of sugar," Duros's older child said, leaning against the interceptor. Despite the warm and sunny Nebulan weather, he had a leather jacket tied around his waist and sported a black Knights of the Universe tee.

"Well, you know how it is, Ciaran," he prompted, rising to his feet again.

Ciaran Duros snickered. "Institute's probably jealous that Earth's got all the good stuff. Nice new wheels, by the way, Dad."

"She's certainly not easy on the eyes, isn't she?" Avoy chuckled, turning back to the mailbox.

"Daddy, a car came by today!" Arian squealed.

His blood suddenly ran cold, but he maintained a smile. "Is that so, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, she's right. It didn't look like a normal delivery car, though. It was this cool blue courier thing and it didn't even have an Institute logo on it. It stopped at the mailbox, dropped something off, and left. To be honest, the whole thing was pretty weird." Ciaran's eyes widened slightly as a dark possibility occurred to him. "It's not a Summons, is it?"

Duros, who had been delving into the mailbox as his son spoke, withdrew a large beige envelope previously nestled between a flyer for a Big Smoke concert and a letter from Maureen's parents. It looked much like a government-sanctioned Summons, except for - he breathed a sigh of relief - the silver Autobot symbol emblazoned on the flap.

As soon as he had placed the other mail inside his vehicle and assured Ciaran that the delivery was, in fact, not from the Institute, he opened the envelope. The letter inside read:

 _Mr. Duros,_

 _On behalf of the Autobots, I'd like to inform you, based on interactions viewed between you and one of our troops, in conjunction with psych profiles supplied by you earlier this week, that you have been chosen to be binary bonded with Hardhead of Iacon. Your bonding process will take place exactly one day from now at exactly 1200 hours. I'm sure you know where to go._

 _If you are not present within five Galactic minutes of the given time, we will assume that you have wisely chosen not to participate in our struggle and will continue our original strategy for capturing the Decepticons._

 _Off the record, Avoy, I urge you to reconsider this. Our war is nothing you want a part of. Spend time with your family. We will eventually neutralize our enemies with or without you. Someday, the Zarak Institute's regime will end. It is nothing to put yourself, your family, or your planet in danger for. Heed my warning, Avoy._

 _Once your decision is made, there will be no turning back._

 _-Rodimus Prime_

"What is it, Dad?" Ciaran asked.

Duros felt apprehensive, his emotions clashing for dominance inside of him. Part of him wanted nothing more than to not show, to leave the situation to someone else. He wanted to spend his life with his family and simply wait for Zarak's iron fist to release its grip on Nebulos.

But a smaller, louder part of him wanted to fight. How long would it be before the Institute came for his children, the way they had come for the homeless in the Purging? How long would it be before Oshana Zarak and his allies truly passed on? How long, indeed, would it be before the Duroses were forced out of house and home, the same way Tyler or Lewis Bricant had been?

He resolved himself, closing the letter. "It's something I'm going to have to seriously speak to your mother about."

* * *

01:09:31

 _C'mon, bell. Ring already._

To James, it seemed as if it had been 3:29 for five minutes.

Around him, his classmates were packing up for the weekend, moving towards the door as slowly as they could without tripping the wrath of the study hall supervisor. He was currently staring unnervingly into space, most likely communicating with the other members of his species's hive-mind.

"That's pretty ironic," James muttered under his breath, thinking of the binary implants he was to get. According to Häer, they allowed people to talk simply by the connection of thought, among a host of other things. He idly wondered who his own partner was going to be, but shook it off as unimportant at the moment.

Finally, the bell rang. Despite everyone else's preparation, James was one of the first students out the door, not counting an Acinonyx who rushed past him in a blur of yellow fur and another Malakai - the supervisor's offspring, in fact - who simply teleported out of the school.

Running was strictly prohibited in the halls, so James walked at the fastest speed he could safely manage. His best friend, Halle Weiss, caught up with him, matching his speed.

"Hey, James. That was a tough test today, huh?" he said.

"It wasn't the worst one I've ever taken. I just hope that everyone else pulled their weight, or my grade's gonna tank," James replied, dodging a larger student's sinewy wings.

"To what? They'll just shuffle the grading system again so everyone gets a B minus - excuse me, ladies," Halle said as they maneuvered their way through a group of girls.

Once they had passed and exited the building, he continued his train of thought even as they descended the stairs in front of the Academy. "I tell you, girls, no matter what species, always end up clumping into packs. How do you ask one to the dance without making an all-encompassing rumor, anyways, James?"

Gort simply smiled, looking back at Halle. "Practice."

He caught a glimpse of a dark jacket in the small park across the street, despite the annual summery weather that the entire planet enjoyed. After quickly crossing the road, they approached the tall, powerfully built man reclining on a stone bench that yielded an excellent view of the river, energetically talking with each other the whole way.

"Just a second, Halle," James said, breaking a conversation about a book report. He cleared his throat, then addressed the man. "Freedom for all," he announced, causing the man to stand and face them. Halle skidded to a stop behind him as he saw who the man was.

" _Harry?!_ " he asked in disbelief, looking behind him to make sure no one was in earshot. "What in the name of all things holy are you doing here? We're literally only a few miles from the Capitol! If someone recognizes you, there'll be forty Secret Police goons on you before your next breath!"

"I've gotten out of worse situations, Weiss-meister. Look, we don't have much time." Harry reached into his jacket and thrust a brightly colored tin lunchbox at James, who took it promptly. On the side was a relief image of some famous Caleb Berst characters, all glistening with oil and frozen in haphazard action poses.

"Everything you and Arcana will need is in there, including a dossier written by Häer. It looks difficult at first, but once you get the hang of reading it, it's pretty straightforward."

"Thanks, Harry. What do I owe you? Is there an acquisition fee or something?"

"Please, Gort. I'm doing this for the benefit of Nebulos, same as you. When Avoy confronts the Institute, that'll be payment enough," Harry said, walking towards the waterfront. "I certainly have plans to sign up, if this turns out well. Do me a favor, though."

"Shoot."

"Tell Avoy good luck from me. He'll need it. Be seeing you later."

"But why is Harry here?" Halle asked, confused.

"It's complicated. I'll tell you when there's not so many ears around," James said. He turned to say goodbye to their fellow Resistance member, but he was already gone without a trace.

* * *

00:24:00

It was 12:00 at night, and James Gort had finished his work.

Halle had stuck around for a while after he had gotten home, enough to see James open the lunchbox. On the way home, the Nebulan/Terran had been nicely filled in on everything, from Duros volunteering for the binary bonding process to Harry, aka the revolutionary Nebulan vigilante "Hotwire", breaking into the Ministry of Science and making off with several multipurpose devices used to mind-link members of the Secret Police.

Still, Halle had stayed, watching as his best friend cut into one such device. James took out a small chip that, according to Häer, "limited emotional input for overall improvement of the unit." In practice, however, it muted all emotion that wasn't blind loyalty to the cause. A minute of toil with a magnifying light and a small pair of tweezers saw it removed.

At 6, Halle left. He needed to eat dinner with his family, and Gort took a quick break to do the same with his mother. After that, he returned to his bedroom for another inspection session. He read that commands given by a superior officer would always come in just a little too loudly, so, using only a few spare pieces of plastic he found in his desk, the young STEM prodigy cobbled together a minuscule volume knob.

Theoretically, this knob would lie just beneath the skin and would be accessible only if it was gently tapped twice. It was long, painstaking work, but, at 11:55, James finally finished it. He lifted the device up to the light, admiring his handiwork. In anticipation of Häer judging the implant unfit for duty, he had prepared a second device without the knob, just in case.

James put the implant into the Caleb Berst "Action Man" lunchbox and fell onto his bed without even getting undressed. He'd need the sleep - because tomorrow was going to be an important day.

* * *

02:04:30

Nebulos's Magna Beach was known far and wide throughout the galaxy for its wild and unpredictable crests. Due to the planet's very strange orbit, the tidal forces exerted on it were tremendous, especially on this six-mile-long stretch of beautiful white sands.

Leonard Ske, by all accounts, was having a fantastic day. It had started out early, with him waking up at six and rushing to the beach as quickly as possible after eating a very short breakfast. He had arrived at the beach around seven and was immediately taken by the massive forty-foot waves he could see from afar, sloshing over almost everything in sight, including the nearby pier.

The 23-year-old surfer waited for a lull in the merciless waves, strapped on his rebreathing facemask, and ran headlong into the surf.

Over the next two hours, Leonard would be content, catastrophically wiping out more times than he could count, but staying atop the crests on his trusty board twice as much. Then, when he was taking a quick break, he met a girl and was thereafter in bliss.

Her name was Rachel, she said. Like Leonard, she had traveled to tens of planets in the Local Sector in search of the best waves the universe had to offer. The two struck up a bold friendship in a few short hours, and Leonard was amazed at her experience and humor. She was a few inches taller than him, had remarkably stunning green eyes with a splash of freckles across her face only bringing them out further, and was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Other than his mother, of course.

They finally left the beach about an hour and a half before the curfew was in full swing and walked together, reliving some of the worst wipeouts that both of them had suffered that day. When they reached the first crosswalk, they paused as they waited for the light over the deserted street to turn green.

"I can, like, walk you to your hotel if you want," Leonard offered. "Which one is it? I checked out every one of them before I booked my own. I know where most of them are."

Rachel laughed. It was a nice sound, like a cold woodland brook bubbling away. "That's OK. My home is very far away. You wouldn't be able to walk all the way there, then back to your own before the curfew dropped."

"But, Rachel! The crime in Nebulon's through the roof right now! I don't want you to get hurt! Besides, I'm a fast runner. I can walk you wherever it is and be back at my place in time."

"I can defend myself, Leo. Relax."

His spirits plummeted. "Groovy. Same time tomorrow, then?"

"Sounds good, Sunbeam," she said, using a nickname she had coined earlier that day on account of his optimistic disposition. He didn't like it much but didn't complain either. "Before you go, though, here's a little something to remember me by."

She stepped closer to him and his heart fluttered. A pretty girl was about to kiss him! Wait until he told his mother! Leonard leaned forward, puckered up, but Rachel - oddly - bent in for his neck. Weird. Weren't kisses supposed to happen on the-

"OW!" he shouted, clapping a hand to the fresh bite wound taken out of his neck. Rachel backed off, quick as a snake, wiping Leonard's blood from her mouth.

He took a second to look at his hand. It was covered in his own blue blood, mixed with a smoking green substance the same color as Rachel's eyes. Where the two fluids mixed, an ugly blackish tar-like substance bubbled fiercely.

Leonard may not have been the smartest lifeform on Nebulos, but he knew his alien creatures. It came with the territory of being a rocket-surfer.

"Reptilian," he managed to hiss through the acute pain.

Rachel - if that was her real name - smiled, showing off retractable teeth the size and shape of two small paring knives. Her beautiful green eyes turned to yellow Reptilian ones, and she shifted. Her skin, including her skintight bodysuit, rose up several millimeters all over her body and settled down again, forming acid-green scales. Portions of her flesh covering her vital organs hardened and thickened until it was the Reptilians' spike-like organic armor, entirely impervious to small weapons like knives, claws, and pistols. Her tail, about five feet in length, extended behind her as five-inch, poison-soaked claws grew from her hands and bare feet.

"Ding ding ding! Ssomeone'ss winning a prize tonight," she gloated as Leonard's board fell from beneath his arm, toppling him to the ground. "And you will too. I love Nebuloss, Leo . . . becausse everyone goess home a winner."

"Flarg . . . you . . ." Leonard spat. His vision was dimming and his limbs got heavier with every second that passed.

"That'ss not very nicce, Leo. Would you kisss your mother with that mouth?" she said as he skin lit from within with the bioluminescent glow her entire species shared. "Oh, don't look at me like that, ssweetie. If I wassn't being paid for your ssafe delivery, I'd have eaten you by now. Young people are sso . . . tender."

Leonard collapsed, his meager willpower the only thing keeping his eyes open. His body was racked with tremors as the poison reached his muscular system.

"One lasst thing I have to tell you. Jusst sso there'ss no doubt left in your mind, it never would have worked out between uss. I'm a Reptilian with a day job, Leonard, and you're a joblesss, roaming Nebulan. If you wake up, dear, be sure to thank Zarak for what he'ss done for your pathetic life. You ssee, Ssunbeam . . . he'ss finally given you a purposse."

Leonard's eyes slammed shut and he was out like a broken lightbulb.

* * *

00:01:01

"Bringing subject eight online."

Leonard became aware of his surroundings. He felt cool air on his skin and could hear the soft ambient whirring of medical monitoring machines. Behind him, it sounded as if some water was periodically running through a pipe. He kept his eyes closed, not because he felt any pain, but because he was hoping that the past thirteen hours were a dream that rudely took advantage of his core desires.

"Ugh . . . where am I . . ."

"Subject has entered stage von of recorded reactions to ze Hybrid process," a deep voice said, thusly shattering any hope Leonard had for his current situation. He opened his eyes, only for a blinding white light to snap him into complete wakefulness.

"Ah!" he grunted, recoiling at the sensation. A faint headache took him, and he closed his eyes again against the blare.

"Subject has successfully regained sight. Standby for stage two. Balancing optical sensors now."

Leonard squinted as he opened his eyes once more, but his vision abruptly cleared. Now he could see a robot of all things, black with scary red eyes that seemed to ridicule him just for the few seconds each one lingered on him. He was strapped upright to a bed in a simple gray clinic of some sort.

"Where am I? I want a phone call!" he cried.

"Subject has entered stage two of ze Hybrid reaction. Vitals are functioning normally, albeit in an agitated state."

"What are you going to do to me?" Leonard tried to say, but before he could, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above a nearby wash station. At first, it looked impossible, but when he moved, the reflection did too. When he winked, at moderate pain to himself, the reflection did the same.

The face in of itself wasn't really scary. It was a red robot's visage with raw terror writ across its features. Purple markings flanked the bottom of the wide yellow eyes, and the face was framed by a sleek helmet with fins ridging the top. Yes, the face did not frighten Leonard, but the implications it carried shocked him to his very bones. His heart hammered inside of his now-metal chest and he started to scream, pulling at his restraints as hard as he could.

"Subject now in Stage Three. Doomshot, pull ze life support. Zis is vere ve vent wrong in ze past."

" _Jawohl, mein führer!"_ another robot whom he previously hadn't noticed shouted from directly behind him, which didn't do much for the newly-made Hybrid's nerves. The gray robot removed a thick cord from Leonard's midsection and what appeared to be an IV needle from his neck.

And then the world crashed down on Leonard Ske.

Every inch of his body suddenly gained what seemed like fifty pounds. His frightened shouts fizzled out as the breaths that he had been taking all his life became far too shallow, as if he was repeatedly hyperventilating into a small straw while simultaneously having asthma. In an effort to assist his ailing body, his brain - now integrated with a Cybertronian processor - sent a signal to his limbs and armor, telling them to work for his life. Vents on his chest fluttered open and cycled air, allowing him to finally draw a deep and broken breath. As he gasped for more air, sections of his skin and flesh that had previously been perfectly happy to stay in one spot slid up and down his frame, ending up in places that they most definitely did not belong in.

"His sparkrate - heartbeat - er, sparkbeat, I guess - is at 131 and stabilizing! Mindwipe, I think this one's checking in!"

"Unbelievable! Retrieve ze Organic, quickly! Tell him zat I have successfully created ze very first Hybrid! Go, now!"

Doomshot left in a hurry, leaving Mindwipe to do all he safely could to stabilize the Hybrid even further. Leonard wasn't feeling too hot, but he found that as the Hypnotist worked, it seemed as if his grip on this mortal coil only tightened. He was, in fact, "checking in" as the armor engineer had said.

The door, which was about twice as tall as Leonard was now, opened, admitting Doomshot and three humanoids into the room.

"Terribly sorry to have kept you waiting, Mindwipe. Miss Ris'Chael and I had to . . . ah, conduct business," a wheelchair-bound man said. Somewhere in his rapidly clearing mind, Leonard recognized him as President-for-life Oshana Zarak. Next to him was a young man in crutches, looking positively amazed by what was in front of him, and the Reptilian that had duped, poisoned, and kidnapped him.

"Now, what have we here?" Zarak asked, pivoting his wheelchair to face Leonard.

"As you commanded, 'Lord' Zarak, I have created a functioning Hybrid for you," Mindwipe said, his voice colder than the waters of a black-sand beach on the planet Byrgenstromn where Leonard had surfed once before. "As of now, he has been alive and off life support for tventy minutes. He has stabilized and is coherent."

"Coherent, eh?" Zarak challenged. "Hybrid! What is your name?"

When Leonard did not respond, Doomshot roughly shook the surgical slab in an effort to get a reaction out of him.

"Doomshot! Do not shake ze slab! Ze Hybrid is already traumatized enough. Give it time."

The Decepticon, short even compared to him, was about to answer, but Leonard cut him off.

"I-I'm Leonard Ske. W-what have you done-"

"Not a fan of the name, for some implacable reason. Does anyone have any alternative solutions?" Zarak interrupted.

"I-I DEMAND A LAWYER!" Leonard shouted, out of breath before the last syllable. "You d-don't have a right to do a-any of this, man! H-HELP!"

"Look at the little Ssunbeam, all flusstered over the predicament he'ss found himsself in!" the Reptilian hissed derisively.

Zarak chuckled, but then frowned as if something had occurred to him. "Wait. Say that again, Ms. Ris'Chael."

The Reptilian seemed puzzled. " . . . flusstered over the predicament he'ss found himsself in?"

"No, no. The name, just the name."

"Ssunbeam?"

"Yes! Perfect! It even fits with both alternate forms! Ms. Ris'Chael, feel free to add 5% to your price just for coming up with that. Sunbeam," he said, carefully tasting the word, "are you prepared to fight rebellious pigs for the long-term sanctity and peace of Nebulos?"

"F-fight?" Leonard said, horrified. "T-totally not! I'm a pacifist, man!

"In times of war, son, we are all forced to sacrifice our beliefs in service to a greater power. I'll ask you once more. Are you prepared to fight dangerous extremists for the benefit of all you hold dear?"

"No!" the Hybrid shouted. "I'll never give up my beliefs! I'll never fight for you! And I will _never_ abandon my ideals, even if I die holding on to them!"

Zarak sighed. "Welp. Someone obviously missed mandatory Me Worship class. And here I was, thinking that my first troop to command would be a loyal one. Oh well. Shorty," he said, addressing Doomshot, "take Sunbeam here to the brig until he changes his mind. Don't let the guard taunt him or anything, though. We want his integration into the ranks to be an easy one. Mindwipe, Ms. Ris'Chael, stay in here. I have a few things to say."

"C'mon, brah," Doomshot said quietly. He disengaged wheels on the surgical slab that had previously gone unnoticed and rolled it out of the ward, whisking Sunbeam away.

They passed gray, cubical structures on the way. The ceiling of the area was a long way up and covered with stalactites and red industrial lights. If Sunbeam turned his head, he would have been just able to see the tall purple antenna of Zarak's temple, illuminated from below with a fiery glow. Some Decepticons showed up on the edges of Sunbeam's vision, watching the Hybrid and his carrier with considerable fascination.

Finally, Doomshot arrived at a tall monolithic structure. Above the door spanned a statue of a very muscular Zarak, holding a scale with flames in each plate in his outstretched hand. Below the statue was a crest that read in an old Nebulan language, "Government the Merciful". The Decepticon knocked exactly once on the carbon-steel door and waited a few moments. It swung inward, revealing a stoutly built Decepticon with blades folded up against his forearms. Behind him dangled a tail that appeared to be made of armored steel cable with a two-pronged hook at the end.

"Hey, Doomshot, whaddya want - holy slag. That's not what I think it is, is it?"

"Assuming you're thinking of a half-fleshy half-Cybertronian freak of science, then yes it is," the armor engineer replied. "Lord Zarak wants to make sure little Sunbeam here gets nice and indoctrinated like the rest of us, now, so no playing 'Tailbone' with him, all right?"

The Decepticon's eyes, barely visible under a flight mask, glowed wistfully. "But I love 'Tailbone'!"

"Yes, Tailwhip, we all know that. Too well, in fact. Take it easy on this one, though."

"Yessir. Cell Five's free, right next to the designer."

Doomshot maneuvered Sunbeam into the prison, which only consisted of a small office and a few cells. A staircase was set against the back wall leading to the other four levels, but that was not his ultimate destination.

This came in the form of a cell in the middle of the tower, which Sunbeam was unceremoniously dumped into after his shackles were removed. He tried to walk but failed, hitting his elbow rather hard as he fell.

"Right, if all goes well, I'll be back in a couple vorns to see how you're doing," Doomshot said as he locked the cell door. "If I'm not here by then, assume I'm dead or really uninterested. Congratulations on your continued existence, by the way. _Hasta luego."_

With that, he left, leaving Sunbeam to curl into the fetal position.

"What is happening . . . what is happening . . ." he sobbed, only to find golden fluid tracing down his eye markings and dropping onto the concrete floor.

"Harsh, huh?" a voice asked. Sunbeam quickly wiped his face with the back of his hand and moved as best as he could toward the source. There, in the cell adjacent to his own, sat a Decepticon. He was white, with several tasteful accents of purple and blue spread over his elegant body. A visor-like crest was open just above his crimson eyes, complete with wide vertical slits in the front.

"Where is this place?" Sunbeam managed. His voice had a metallic quality to it, one that he hated.

The other mech's eyes glittered. "The Pit. You're Sunbeam, right? I don't remember seein' ya on the _Remnant . . ."_

"No, man, that's not my name. I'm Leonard Ske. I'm a Nebulan - or, I was - and I don't know what they've done to me!" he shouted shakily.

"Ohhh. You're, like, the first one of those Hybrids, right? Nice. What's it like? Switchin' bodies, I mean. Like, it's gotta be different, ain't it? Humanoids, like, have all these little bits that need ta be taken care of all the time an'-"

A shudder hit Sunbeam. "It's flargin' terrible."

"Sorry. Hey, like, just 'cause there's nothin' else ta do here, I'll teach ya about your new body! You'll be on ya pedes, in, like, no time at all! What d'ya say?"

There, of course, was no other option. "S-sounds good. What should I call you, bro?"

The Decepticon stood up delicately and cracked his knuckles. "Needlenose of the First Vosnian House of Nobles, at'cha service. Let's get started, k?"

* * *

00:00:02

"Mornin', Avoy," Tyler chirped lightly, despite the monumental weight that this day carried.

"Good morning, Tyler," Duros responded. It had been a long night indeed. He had said everything he possibly could have to convince Maureen that the pros of joining the Autobots far outweighed the cons. They had been up until dawn arguing fiercely about it, and she had not proved a pushover. It was only when Avoy had brought up the serious threat that the Decepticons and the Zarak Institute held for the safety of Nebulos that she had begun to give. Selvig, who had been getting a _very_ early-morning snack during a particularly heated part of the debate, had also chipped in and though he had swiftly been sent back to the guest room, his argument regarding the worsening political situation on Nebulos seemed to lodge with Maureen.

The long night ended in tears for both spouses, each one now shaken by the dangerous road ahead of them, but Maureen had reluctantly agreed to the plan.

Now, Duros walked in a daze to his final destination as an endangered, oppressed Nebulan citizen. He still had his doubts, but he was still fiercely determined to free his people. From here on out, there would be absolutely no going back. The hologram on the mountainside flickered off as they approached and Pointblank opened the gate for them, his characteristic snarl noticeably more pronounced than usual. Together, Tyler and Duros entered the main cavern.

Several small structures were being constructed in the shadow of the Autobots' fortress, connected by strips of metal, not unlike the one that the two men walked now. This path led to a small building covered by clear plastic sheets. Rodimus Prime was pacing outside, and Duros could see three Nebulan shapes moving purposefully about inside. When Rodimus saw him approaching, his face fell.

"Mr. Duros. It's honestly kind of a bummer to see you here. I had _hoped_ that you'd made the decision to end this fool's crusade."

"Rodimus Prime, I'm ready to serve under the Autobot's banner for the protection of Nebulos and her people and in the solemn hope that my service will help you accomplish your goal. I speak from my heart, soul, and mind. I only ask for permission to awaken my people from their blind servitude to Oshana Zarak and tell them that this is not the way things should be," Duros pledged. The creed itself was a modified version of the one he had spoken on his first day on the Nebulan Security Force, and the appeal was truly spoken from his heart, soul, and mind. He personally thought both fit the situation, all things considered.

"Whoa. That, sir, was worthy of a Prime, but you didn't have to pledge your allegiance to the flag or whatever. Though I gotta disagree with your involvement, I accept your pledge. However, we **will** have a talk about that 'awakening' thing sometime soon. You do understand the risks, yes?"

"I do," was Duros's resigned answer.

"And you agree to follow my orders for the entire time the Rebels still run free on this planet?"

"I do."

"Slag, guys, he's really doing this," Rodimus called over his wrist-mounted comm unit. "And you agree to uphold the ideals of the Autobot cause until discharge from service, honorable or otherwise?"

Duros swallowed his trepidation and determinedly squared his jaw. "I do," he finished. Thoughts of his family, life before the Institute, and Galen swam across his vision. A large crowd of Autobots had accumulated around him, all watching the historic moment as the first Nebulan in service was accepted.

Rodimus inclined his noble head a few inches. "Avoy Duros, by the power vested in me as Prime, I hereby welcome you into the Autobot ranks."

"HUZZAH! HUZZAH!" the Autobots cheered. As they did so, Tyler Solomon returned from wherever he had disappeared to. Behind him followed Brainstorm and Hardhead, lugging an enormous metal crate. Duros was so focused on the size of the thing that he didn't even realize that Hardhead was missing his namesake, yet continuing to act normally, until it hit him with a jolt.

"Hardhead! What in Zetca's name happened to you?" he exclaimed as the crate rolled to a stop.

"I did," Brainstorm replied, running around the crate and tapping a code into a keypad on the side facing Duros. "and while I was at it, I invented two other body formats, the impermanent bonding process, and had time to make this cute box, too. His walnut's in here, just a mo'."

To everyone's surprise, the green mech suddenly began to talk in his brief, to-the-point way. "Don't worry about me. This is weird, but I'm fine."

"Everyone step back!" Brainstorm yelled as the crate began to transform. It split in two horizontally, folding out to the sides as some sort of display and forcing the Autobots to back away as best as they could. The front lowered toward Duros, forming a ramp that led up to the contents of the crate.

Five olive-green pods, each about a head shorter than Brainstorm, fanned out among overhead rails in a "V" pattern and hissed open, revealing fully complete robotic forms illuminated from the top of the pods by bright circles of LEDs that brought out every crisp detail.

The suit - for that was what they were - at the point of the V, facing Duros, was green and gray, with several large yellow sections and a blue window set into its chest. It possessed two cannons on its back and four sharp metal prongs jutting proudly from its shoulders. The face was mostly covered with a yellow faceplate but had glowing blue eyes of the exact same shade as the chest window. It was clearly a weapon of war, as the bevy of firearms hung in the pod behind it proved further. Duros accepted the fact that they were now his weapons, and realized that before this whole mess was over they would each be fired more than once.

"That's now his head," Brainstorm said. "You'll find out how my genius birthed that after your operation. Do you think that "Headmaster" was just a little code name? You're in for a surprise."

The suits flanking this one were expertly crafted in their own right, but before he could observe them in depth, Rodimus said, "Well, continue on your way. You'll have time to admire the suits in greater detail later."

Duros nodded crisply. "Yes, sir." With a quick "thanks" aimed at Brainstorm and Tyler (who, as he was told, assisted the Engineer a great deal in the process), he entered the plastic-laden structure.

Inside was a small surgery ward, with a counter, a sterilization tray covered with shining medical tools, a chair covered with protective paper, and a rack of anesthetics that doubled as a surgical lighthead. In one corner of the room, Tex Arcana, dressed in scrubs, went over his final preparations. Over by the counter, Häer Thenthow was observing a small device as James Gort watched intently.

"This is very impressive work, Gort! I'm nearly speechless, to be honest. Just by removing that bothersome chip and adding the subdermal volume control, you've improved the function of the implant by tenfold. Not too bad for a Junior, eh?"

Gort beamed. "Thanks, Dr. Thenthow."

"I only say it because it's verifiable, friend."

"Are we ready to begin, then?" Arcana asked, turning about-face. He put on his surgical mask and stood by the chair, expectant.

Duros cast a last look outside the plastic, watching the Autobots respectfully move away from the structure and allowed his gaze to rest on the new combat suit that he himself would soon don in the service of Nebulos and its people. "We should get it over with, right?

He walked to the chair, removing his Commissioner jacket and draping it over a nail that was conveniently sticking out of one of the support columns. When that was done, he laid back in the seat, the paper making sharp snapping noises.

"OK, Avoy, this won't be a very complex operation. I'm just going to place the implant in your temple and calibrate it to enter a section of your brain. The procedure should only last about ten minutes, tops. Got that?"

"Yep," was Duros's reply. He drew a deep breath to calm his jumpy nerves and relaxed as best as he could under the circumstances.

"You'll be groggy for eight or nine minutes once you wake up because of the anesthetics. For the next couple of hours, you'll also have mild migraines that will strike periodically, but that's just your body getting used to the implant. Don't touch the area I'm going to cut for a day until it's had time to heal." He glanced at the other two in the room. "I think that's about it. Do you two want to watch?"

Gort nodded. "I'm going after Tyler is, so I should probably get an idea of what's going to happen."

"Fine, grab a mask. Häer?"

The scientist, however, was already wearing a mask over his face. "Better to watch a master at work rather than just going off of my limited knowledge of the Nebulan anatomy when I'll be holding the knife."

"Very well. Gort, black out the room while you're over there," Arcana said. James hit a switch and the electroreactive nanites in the plastic dimmed. Now, the room was completely dark except for the lighthead and the tiny red light of a tape recorder the surgeon had brought with. Arcana took a large sheet of sterile paper and laid it over Duros, making sure to position it so it wouldn't fall off, then put a rubber mask over Duros's mouth.

"This is a recording of Avoy Duros's operation, the first volunteer for the Headmaster project. The operation is placing a modified security-grade communications implant on the left side of the midbrain, to later be remotely connected to the Autobot Hardhead."

A _fsss_ noise came from behind Duros as he suddenly became sleepy.

"Gaseous anesthesia administered at eleven-eighteen," Arcana narrated.

With a final coherent thought of the tasks ahead of him and the benefit it would serve to Nebulos, Avoy Duros gave himself over to the gas and faded into blackness.

FIN

* * *

 **Heart of the Demons:** Yeah, that thing was intensely lengthy. Thankfully, I was able to explore a postwar Cybertron and its non-Nebulos-bound characters! To be honest, I had a lot of fun with Punch/Counterpunch and the friendly conversation between Scattershot and Goldfire. Those were my favorite parts in my favorite chapter. Thank you for the blessing of good luck, friend. I think it's really paid off in this chapter.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Well, there you have it! It took me an unreasonably long time, but it's finally up. I hope you enjoyed it ~ I think this is one of the best chapters I've penned yet. You may have a different opinion, but hey, that's what's the Review feature is for! Leave 'em, folks ~ because I can't fix my work if YOU don't tell me what's wrong with it! Thank you much. Until next time . . .

The Doctor (Do)


	6. Mandatory Service

**Author's Note:** Hey, everyone! Hope you're having a great summer! It's taken me quite a while to churn this chapter out, and for that, I apologize. End of the school year, vacations, and all that, but I've finally gotten this far! But you don't want to hear me spout the latest blather on about my life, I'm sure - you're here to read my latest blather having to do with a fictional universe!

First things first. I don't own the characters of (checks notecard) Mantillar, Vorbo, and Sammy "Slick" Queen (original character Sliquid). Aside from the ridiculous first names I gave the former two and Sliquid's entire birth name, the characters belong to DeviantArt's F-for-feasant-design, who is similarly plugged in Violent Demonstration.

Please enjoy! The companion piece over on DeviantArt is up and running under the name of "Hybrid: Spasma." She can be found in my Decepticon and Hive galleries.

-The Doctor (Do)

* * *

Rodimus Prime pored through the datapads stacked three high on his temporary desk, each containing a single psych profile sent in by individual members of the Resistance.

"Unbelievable," he murmured to himself. It was as if Avoy Duros had been the metaphorical dam holding back the thirty-odd other Nebulans - and others - that made up the organization. From the looks of the pads, every single person including, strangely enough, some others Rodimus hadn't seen during the _Fortress's_ crash had decided to join the ranks of the Autobots. Most of them were currently awaiting the bonding process themselves outside in the cave. There were even several instances where the proper psych matches had doubled up, resulting in Autobots with two theoretical Nebulan partners! How was that even possible?

It saddened Rodimus something terrible to play such a large hand in the fates of so many people. He knew that unless the Autobots were in top form for the duration of this campaign, the Nebulans would undoubtedly incur injuries to themselves, possibly even-

No. He couldn't think about sending innocent civilians to their deaths. Rodimus slammed the profile he currently held onto the desk and strode to the window of the warden's office he had commandeered, gazing out to the line of soon-to-be Autobots that had slipped away from their jobs, families, and lives to receive their own communication implants.

This operation was stressing him out way too much. A few solar cycles ago, he was holding down the fort in Praxus, occasionally leaving the rigors of stabilizing the government of postwar Cybertron to hang out with Daniel Witwicky. One little terrorist attack later and he was holding together an unauthorized incursion on a vacation planet, lost and probably presumed dead to his friends and superiors, conscripting mass amounts of locals into the war effort. Funny how life worked that way.

Though Rodimus hated himself for thinking so, one look at the sheer amount of datapads lying on the desk proved one fact to him beyond a doubt. His forces in this hopefully short campaign, whether they hailed from Cybertron, Nebulos, Earth, or elsewhere, would certainly outnumber however many fighters Galvatron had managed to cram into the relatively small Rebel warship. Brainstorm, ever the prolific inventor, had already finished most of the Resistance's new combat mechs, which Rodimus hadn't seen just yet. He figured that the Engineer was busy putting the finishing touches on them, which was fine. As long as the Nebulans got their basic training in before something bad went down, Rodimus was willing to let Brainstorm take his time. The Autobot leader had faith in the jet's abilities and knew that he would soon finish his task, no matter how difficult the details were.

Suddenly, he was pinged with a comm request from Chromedome, the _Fortress Maximus's_ resident computer programmer. Rodimus accepted the request.

"Chromedome. What's up?"

"Prime," the former Enforcer greeted. "I think you'll be pleased to hear that Arcana's finished with your new partner. If you could make it down to B wing for a couple breems, I'll be happy to calibrate your spark with Mr. Fireborn."

Rodimus nodded, though he knew that Chromedome wouldn't receive that nonverbal cue. Phoenix Fireborn was his psych match, a quiet, scholarly type who was Nebulos's foremost atomic physicist before being put on unpaid leave by the Zarak Institute after refusing to make a megaton bomb for them. According to his profile, Phoenix was excited, yet nervous, about the prospect of becoming an Autobot.

"Copy that, Chromedome. I'll be right down." Rodimus closed the link and sighed, still looking out over the cavern. _It's now or never,_ he thought as he took a long drink of ultra-low grade Energon from his flask. After he was linked to the physicist, there would be a short period of training - and then the real thing. He too was apprehensive about what was to come, but it would be interesting to fight alongside a Nebulan for whatever length of time the Rebels would still run free. Little did he know it at the time, but to this end, Rodimus Prime would become a Targetmaster.

* * *

"TARGETMASTERS?" Crosshairs roared, running his servos over the broad shoulders of Brainstorm's newest creation, a Charger-like mech made for Cletus Amprage's person.

"Yeah, Targetmasters," the Engineer replied. "I honestly thought you'd be all over them, Crossy. They're guns wot turn into robots which they themselves can wield guns. If you think this is bad, you should see the Double Targetmasters."

"What did you do to make these poor things?" Crosshairs whispered, his voice a mixture of muted horror and morbid fascination.

"Well, I-"

"Never mind. I don't want to know. Just let me pay my respects to these mutilated weapons in silence. Please."

Brainstorm nodded, turned, and began exploring the edges of his briefcase. It was lying on the surgical slab, which was clean for the first time in a week and a half.

"You know how it is, Crossy. They're already made, coded, and calibrated. It'd be like sluicing away fresh materials if we didn't put 'em to good use." He gingerly lifted the handle, every dynametal fiber in his body tensing. His optics narrowed, eagerly awaiting the Weapon Supervisor's response.

There was a long pause. Crosshairs ceased all movement and became still, his deep vents the only noise other than the _Fortress's_ own ventilation system.

"Oh, sure, Brainstorm," he said, breaking the silence. "We're limited as it is to the weapons on our persons and you want to waste our figurative lifelines on making more suits for the Nebulans! You haven't even turned in your own cannons for proper registration yet! Why don't you make mechs out of our airbags while you're at it? Maybe our engines? When will you finally be satisfied?!"

Brainstorm smirked underneath his facemask and released the briefcase handle. The familiar pleasant feeling occurred in his head, like a bright light coming on in a dark room. "You've just given me an idea."

"Ach, Primus!" Crosshairs shouted, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor.

"Does this mean you're in with the whole Targetmaster thing?" Brainstorm asked innocuously.

Crosshairs released a sharp exhale, defeated, and stood up. "Fine. Do what you want. But mark my words, Brainstorm, if you ever - _ever_ \- do something like this again with my guns, _especially_ without my consent, I will literally make you find three new religions to escape my wrath. The armory is one hundred and five percent off limits. Are we, as you say, _savvy?"_

Brainstorm gave an enthusiastic two thumbs up. "Yep."

The Gladiator class nodded soberly and, with a final longing glance at the Targetmasters, left. Without wasting a second, Brainstorm spread a sheet of drafting paper from his private supply over the slab and quickly jotted his new idea down. This would be his best creation yet.

* * *

 _Squeak, squeak,_ went the wheelchair of Elegana Dublyn-Head as the 22-year old executive assistant made her way through the wide halls of the Nebulan Capitol. A stack of paperwork consisting mostly of formal prayers and pleas were balanced on the small lap desk in front of her. The throngs of people on their ways to meetings, hearings, and assorted offices flowed around her like a cold stream, which was a comparison that she certainly didn't enjoy drawing. During her school career, she'd had an experience that haunted her even today with one such stream that had robbed her of the use of her legs. She still had nightmares of bleeding out in that little creek underneath the bridge, unable to do anything thanks mostly to the pain. If that truck driver hadn't stopped his rig to do something as simple as eat a late dinner . . .

Elegana shook the creeping, paralyzing horror away. Everything was fine now. She had graduated school with honors, obtained the best treatment for her legs that the Dublyn-Heads could safely afford, and even secured a well paying - if not morally unsatisfying - job as Oshana Zarak's personal assistant.

Of course, she disagreed - privately, that is - with Zarak's god-complex and the terrible atrocities that he visited in secret to the populous. During his twenty-eight year reign, he'd raised taxes five hundred percent, commissioned the Cleansings, forcibly converted most of the submissive to his worship, installed ReZidence cameras in the living rooms of almost every home, and silenced anyone who would stand against him, among other things. Elegana didn't like the job too much. Just a glance into the papers on her lap desk was usually enough to turn her stomach, but there wasn't much that she could do about any of the situations. By law, she was required to complete at least ten years of work under the President before she could seek employment elsewhere. She was more or less forced to do this, so there was no point in thinking otherwise.

Finally, she approached the Throne Room. Its enormous wooden doors were thrown wide open, showcasing the expensively decorated and empty interior. Normally, there would be armed guards standing underneath every black granite pillar, but apparently, Zarak didn't have lounging on his itinerary today. The room was completely empty, which served only to highlight its vastness. A skylight high above cast a glow over both the intricate golden designs that lined the white walls and the titular throne that rose on a raised dais in the center of the room. The banner above the throne, a dark green length of fabric with a stylized "Z" emblazoned on it, waved slightly in an artificial breeze generated by the Capitol's masterfully designed ventilation system.

Elegana placed the stacks of paperwork on an ornate glass table to the immediate left of the throne and was just leaving when a smooth movement behind the nearest pillar caught her eye. There, a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in five different universal languages - as per planetary code - had just swung mostly shut.

"Doorstop must have slid out," she thought to herself, but upon closer inspection, there was no wedge of any sort to be seen anywhere near the bottom of the reinforced wooden door. That only meant one thing. Someone had just recently used this relatively out-of-the-way portal.

Elegana opened the door the rest of the way - she figured it was fine. She was, after all, a member of the staff - and peered down into a well-lit, utilitarian stairwell. Rats.

Defeated, she turned to leave, but with a loud CHK, her wheels stopped moving entirely. Metal claws had risen up from slots on the smooth concrete floor and locked around the chair's wheels. Suddenly, Elegana began moving slowly and methodically toward the flight of stairs.

"What the-NO!" she yelled as soon as the claws lurched backward, forcing her down the concrete staircase. She attempted to throw herself out of the chair, but the lap desk that had seemed like such a good idea when her father had it installed jammed in place as if its disengagement mechanisms were fused together.

"AAH!" Elegana screamed as she pitched downward, expecting her neck to break any moment . . . but that moment didn't come. Instead, the chair shook madly - the metal claws still possessing a firm grip on her wheels - as it shuddered down the stairs. It was a sensation that, while much preferable to getting a skull fracture or a snapped neck, was still terrifying. It felt as if at any moment, the chair would slip backward and spill Elegana the rest of the way down.

Thankfully, the mortifying ride came to an end when she reached a landing directly below the entrance. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her beating heart, but the claws didn't stop moving. With an alarmed glance, she noticed that they were turning towards another flight of stairs, this time going in the opposite direction. Just before she all but fell down this one, she saw that there were at least three more landings before the bottom could be reached.

It went on like this for not three, but five additional drops - including a wooden spiral staircase, easily the scariest part of the descent - before the claws finally had enough and dumped her out with a loud clatter onto the floor of what seemed to be an opulent ballroom.

Before she could even react, however, before she could really study the room, a loud _ding_ filled the room. Two golden elevator doors to the right of the spiral staircase slid open and Oshana Zarak, accompanied by a government suit, rolled out. The President-for-life didn't look the least bit surprised to see his assistant on the floor of his apparently private ballroom.

"Ah, hello, Ms. Dublyn-Head. It's nice of you to drop in. You took the long way down, I see."

As Zarak talked, a realization struck Elegana. Her brother Brutus, Zarak's trusted bodyguard was nowhere to be seen. Usually, Brutus would have been studiously watching the President's back, no matter where the infirm politician went.

"Mr. President," she gasped, still shaken from her trip. "E-excuse me for asking, sir, but where is-"

"Your brother?" Zarak interrupted. "It's funny you should ask. I would bet you've got quite a few questions floating around in that little redheaded noggin of yours. _Why wasn't I shown this place when I was hired to be a non-nosy assistant who just does what she's told? Where's my brother? Why do I ask so many questions?_ And, most importantly-" he chuckled lightly, "- _why was I told to issue a mandatory double-curfew in Nebulon a few weeks ago?"_

"Heh heh . . . Well, Ms. Dublyn-Head," Zarak continued after a brief pause, "the members of a very important organization - your betters, of course - are just about to meet. If you'll get up and follow me, I'm positive that all of your questions will be answered."

* * *

Tyler raised his fists, blocking an incoming blow from the Decepticon that seemed intent on destroying him and his beautiful face. The robot recovered in a nigh-impossible time and launched a salvo of attacks, each one missing his head by millimeters, that culminated in a sweeping roundhouse kick that nearly knocked the Nebulan off his feet. He staggered, trying to find the right footing again, and ducked as the Submachine Gunner sent a fist flying over his head. Despite this, he stayed calm, watching for his cue.

There it was! The Decepticon reared up a little, spike-studded foot level with Tyler's line of vision, and lunged in for a sideways kick undoubtedly capable of reducing the Nebulan's cranium to mulch.

Without wasting a second, Tyler yanked the ascot - of his own design - from his neck and stuck it out in front of him. It took the full force of the Soldier's attack but, amazingly, held. He wrapped the garment around the Decepticon's leg and yanked down hard, sending the Cybertronian to the ground. Already, Tyler could see his adversary making to get up, so he shoved him down long enough to remove the ascot.

 _Will this really work?_ he asked himself skeptically, quickly wrapping the woven metal cloth around his hand. If it didn't, his life could be at stake at the most inopportune moments. Tyler clenched his fist, pulling the ascot taut. As he expected and hoped, tiny titanium spikes rose from between the weave of the colored section.

"Yes!" he whooped in triumph, raising his fist. He pounded the Decepticon's head as hard as he could, once, twice, three times. On the fourth hit, the robot's battle helm cracked open like an egg and on the sixth, sparks and smoke escaped from its processor. Tyler Solomon's opponent was no more.

But the battle was far from over. Tyler looked up and scanned the area for his other adversary, who had slipped out of sight while he had been busy with the soldier who was currently lying at his feet. _He couldn't have gone far,_ the Nebulan thought.

Suddenly, the Decepticon stabbed him through a chink in his armor. White smoke curled up from where the laser-edged blade had come in contact with the material - including, he realized with an almighty shock, his own flesh. Tyler could do nothing but watch in horror, not even able to react as the knife crept upwards, completely incinerating his interior workings and torso. He lost all control of his limbs and sagged, blackish-yellow smoke pouring from his mouth as he stared up at the Decepticon Private that had ended him.

A sentence, written in bold red, popped up on his suit's HUD. "TERMINATION OF VITALS DETECTED. SIMULATION FAILED.

Tyler groaned as the Decepticon, its combat knife, and the environment swiftly faded, leaving only himself lying on a steel training pad. He stood up, brushed himself off, and tied the ascot around his neck once more. The gray panels that created a fully immersive experience folded down and made the entirety of the recently built Autobot practice pad visible to him. All around this particular ring, the newly-christened Headmasters and Targetmasters were training with their respective partners. To his left, Gort and the Autobot named Highbrow were already beginning paired combat. To his right, the elderly Sergeant Kup, paired with Chiron Coyle in a new centaur-like mech suit, were working on marksmanship. Everyone was coming along very nicely, some even finished with the entire intensive training program.

"Wow," his Headmaster partner, a medium-sized brown Autobot named Chromedome, remarked as he put the simulator on standby. "five soldiers at one time! That's pretty impressive, especially for someone who just became one of us a few days ago. Nice work."

A feeling of mild surprise, one that wasn't Tyler's, overcame him. That was one of the strangest parts of this whole thing, sharing emotions and, sometimes, thoughts with another person. Well, that and interacting with a giant robot who completely lacked a head.

"What can I say? I'm a fast learner," he replied. "I just wish I could have finished the thing, though."

"Don't worry about that. You'll be able to revisit it later," Chromedome said, entering the ring himself. "Other than this particular program, you've passed everything else with flying colors. You even pulled a win against a Captain! I've seen natural-sparked Autobots fail to beat them in hand-to-hand. I think you're ready to move on."

"To basic paired combat, right?" Tyler recalled from his initial briefing.

"Yep," the programmer affirmed, producing a large burnt-umber rifle from his subspace and checking it as necessary. "We'll start at a lower AI quotient than normal to warm up, but then," he snorted, an awkward thing to do without a head, "things are gonna get interesting."

Tyler raised his own weapon, a standard-issue laser rifle. As the protective panels rose around the pad, he thought about the inevitable time when he would fight in real life alongside Chromedome. He was going to be the Autobot's wingman, his partner, the guy covering his back. It was vital that Tyler carry out this new function to the absolute best of his ability.

The letters came back on to his HUD, except this time they were green. SIMULATION READY.

Chromedome and Tyler Solomon began to train side-by-side, preparing for the battles that were undoubtedly to come. Around the cavern, all eight newly installed practice pads were occupied as any Resistor who could spare practiced with their larger partners, Autobots and Nebulans fighting together for the first time.

* * *

"Uuggh . . ."

Elegana Dublyn-Head felt absolutely terrible.

She was strapped upright to a hard surface of some kind, arms immobilized. Her brain felt like it was pressed against the inside of her skull and she couldn't even open her eyes to see her surroundings.

In short, she felt helpless again, a feeling she was very much not pleased to host for a second time.

Zarak had all but forced her down more stairs after he had discovered her in the ballroom, where she had been formally "introduced" to hulking robots that simply radiated hatred and evil. Elegana had only been unsettled further as Zarak and his forty-so lackeys packed around the long table discussed a series of terrible machinations - and the means - to "return Nebulos to its former glory" that had made her sick just listening to them. But the worst part by far came soon after, when the President-for-life had turned to her and asked if she wanted a part in this "bright new Nebulos."

Of course she had vehemently turned down the offer. Who wouldn't? Zarak, although disappointed, let her go, but before Elegana could make it to the stairlift, sweating in fear the whole way, a sharp pain pierced her neck. Her muscles simply stopped working and her head lolled back just enough to see the lean visage of Count Wergild Vorath, the former head of the Ministry of Science, looming over her like some pale, bony moon. As she began to fall into a panicky sleep, Zarak spoke, his very tone full of contempt.

"I did give you a chance, Ms. Dublyn-Head. You could have enjoyed a respectable position in my people's army. We would have liberated the populous from themselves and reeducated them on the virtues of following the government's values to the letter. Alas! Your shortsightedness, girl, has sadly forced my hand. Nebulos will still become a utopia in the Local Sector, and you will still play your part, in time. But to make this happen, my dear . . . you're going to have to be bonded to one of my _problem children._ "

In the present, Elegana suddenly became terrified. If that had happened as she was blacking out, then that must mean . . .

"Bringing subject ten online."

Oh crap.

Elegana's breathing became erratic as her vision exploded into bright white light. As soon as her vocal chords found themselves, she unleashed an earsplitting curse that caused the gray robot she could now see in front of her to almost fall off of the table it was sitting on.

"Let me go! Let me go!" she screamed, on the verge of hyperventilating. She only got more nervous when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror adjacent to whatever she was tied to. Her new form was black and silver with strips of tooth-like spikes around her shoulders and legs. There was what appeared to be red headlights on her chest and - were those _claws_ at the tips of her fingers?

"Slaggit, Mindwipe, she's spazzing out!" the Decepticon whom she had startled yelled in alarm.

"Not for long," the other one snarled, flicking his blood-red visor up and coming uncomfortably close to Elegana. "SLEEP," he boomed in a fathomless deep voice.

Elegana immediately fell quiet. His eyes were so beautiful, a dark ruby red that was the most fantastic color she had ever seen. All of her thought processes imploded into oblivion, into the endless shapes reflected in Mindwipe's eyes. Why did he wear a visor and sully their beauty? Looking into them, she could barely remember her own name . . . at that moment, she would do absolutely anything to remain in the gaze of her master.

Just then, the door opened and Mindwipe lowered his visor again.

"Someone's a potty mouth!" the President sang in falsetto as he rolled in, a brutal-looking robot holding the door open for him. This one was more creature than humanoid, hunched over with a mouth full of overlarge, sharp teeth. Spiky protrusions similar to Elegana's adorned much of the same places on its deep red limbs, except this one's were longer and sharper than hers.

"We heard that nastiness all the way from Solace Hill," Zarak continued after clearing his throat. "So, Bat-boy, what exactly happened to get our newest recruit so flustered?"

"Not sure, Lord Z. Here we are, goin' through the motions as per the usual and all of a sudden Spasma here wakes up and starts screaming her airbags out. Mindwipe did his mystic mojo thing on her, though, and now she's all shut up again."

"I have more than one problem with that explanation, but fine," the organic hissed. "Is she able to talk?"

Mindwipe spoke blandly, idly inspecting his own sharp claws as if he'd rather be doing literally anything else. "Zat particular memetic agent I used is veak. Ze Hybrid, although disoriented, should be capable of speech. She certainly vas earlier."

"Very well. Oh, Ms. Dublyn-Head. You know, you _really_ shouldn't have made me do that. I didn't _want_ to, but, tsk, you didn't exactly leave me a choice. Anyhow. Until Bat-boy here manages to calibrate your partner for your bonding process, you'll stay in one of our lavishly appointed jail cells. Sound good, hmm?"

"No . . . Elegana muttered. She was rapidly recovering from the hypnotism agent that Mindwipe had used. "You . . . you won't get away with this . . . M-my father will find out sooner or later . . ."

Zarak just looked mildly bemused. "But, Spasma! I've already had both you and your brother converted into soldiers for the wellbeing of Nebulos! I mean, really. It's a little bit late for that clichéd 'you'll not get away with this' speech, don't you think? Besides, your father would be positively tickled if he knew what was happening here. This, what I'm doing, is what he's been fighting for all these years! 'Giving peace to a long-suffering Nebulos' . . . yes, I believe that's it."

One thing about Zarak's words, above everything else, tipped Elegana off. " . . . Brutus?"

"Oh dear. I've spoiled the surprise, haven't I? Well, _Spasma,_ it's all true. You will be fighting alongside your beloved, peaceful dope of a brother in the coming months. Say hello to Krunk. Krunk, come forward, please.

Much to Elegana's dismay, the hulking, brutish Decepticon loped over to Zarak's side with a strange gait that utilized all four limbs. It wasn't true. This bestial, murderous robotic death machine couldn't have been her sweet, awkward, funny older brother. The President was toying with her, trying to get her to collapse into bitter service underneath his thumb.

There was, however, a certain look in this "Krunk's" eyes that proved to her beyond a doubt that it was Brutus, twisted into a nearly unrecognizable form. Mindwipe's memetic agent was still affecting her to some degree, but she could still feel an endless knot of despair well up right next to her heart.

Zarak was still blathering on about something, but Elegana wasn't listening anymore. Her whole world was fixated on the hunched creature taking up almost an eighth of the room. After a while, Krunk lifted himself up a little and approached Elegana. The Decepticon undid her bonds, none too gently, and then unplugged a thick cable that she hadn't noticed before attached to her midsection. Even as she now struggled to draw breath and gained what felt like a thousand pounds, he swept her up in one massive spiked arm, being careful to position her in such a way that she was untouched by any of the sharp spikes that covered his body.

The ward and other monolithic structures blended together as Krunk limped away. Elegana was unable to do anything but stare up at his angular face, not dissimilar to some type of lizard.

"Brutus?" she gasped between breaths that were far too shallow. The beast - who she now knew was formerly her brother - did nothing but look down at her like a predator to prey. She thought, if she was deluding herself, that the toothy snarl even softened just a little.

But then, Krunk stopped at a heavy-duty black door. He knocked once using his right hind leg and it opened.

"All right, another one?" the Decepticon inside said. "Mindwipe's churning out a pretty impressive number of you freaks. Throw her in with the other, doggy. Go on."

As Krunk passed the guard, he let out a low, deep growl that made the Decepticon back off in spite of himself. It looked like even these warlike machines were afraid of what Brutus had become, an almost unthinkable notion to Elegana. Krunk made his way to a cell close to the warden's office, opened it, and roughly threw her in.

Despite this, her gaze didn't leave the beast until he left the prison. After he had, she began to break down. Great sobs racked her body, and she collapsed into the pit of despair that had grown inside of her.

"Whoa, whoa. Don't cry," a voice said from directly behind her. She turned her head with some difficulty and saw a lanky purple and red mech with yellow eyes leaning against a back wall. His paint job reminded her of what Brutus had become, and that was a fact that unsettled her further.

"What's the matter?" the robot asked in a concerned tone. "Well . . . I guess that's pretty obvious . . ."

He trailed off. The cell block was filled with Elegana's sobbing for a time. The Decepticon reached out to her to try and comfort his new cellmate, but when she let out an almighty flinch, he drew his hand back as if he had touched an electrical wire.

"You're one of them!" Spasma squawked in alarm."You helped do this to m-me!" She tried to move further away from him, but every part of her was much too heavy. All she wanted to - and could - do was sit here and weep. The slim robot was silent for a moment, then sighed wearily.

"Nah, man. You got me all wrong. You're Nebulan, right? I'm like you. Leonard L. Ske, at your service. A couple days ago, I was out there riding the waves over at Magna Beach before I was kidnapped by some government merc and brought here. I wake up later and all of a sudden I'm this . . . thing. These goons have started calling me Sunbeam." He scowled. "It's totally ridiculous. Eh, whatever. Being a robot's not as bad as it seems. What's your name?"

Elegana had stopped crying while Leonard talked. Now, she lifted her arm with a great deal of effort as an experiment. It was still heavier than anything she'd ever carried before, but the motion seemed to come easier now. "E-Elegana Dublyn-Head. Zarak's st-stuck me with-" she grit her teeth, "-Sp-Spasma."

Leonard choked. "Wow. And I thought Sunbeam was bad."

"T-tell me about it," Elegana replied, managing to rekindle some of her humor.

"Is anyone gonna introduce me?" an airy voice huffed from the cell directly across the hall.

"Oh, yeah. Elegana, that's Needlenose. Full Decepticon, but he's a pretty chill dude. When I was new to this whole deal, he taught me how this body worked."

"'Sup," the white-and-blue Decepticon said, waving. Spasma waved back awkwardly. Motion was definitely returning to her now, including - she was overjoyed to find - her legs.

"We'll help you get through this," Sunbeam said confidently, and she could see that he was genuine. Needlenose seemed honestly willing to help, too.

At least, Spasma thought, she had some semblance of hope to cling on to through this fresh nightmare.

* * *

"Fantastic!" Zarak announced with a hungry grin on his face. "Simply fantastic! Three functional, if not pacifistic Hybrids created in less than a week! Very nice work, Bat-boy, Tiny."

Mindwipe and Doomshot were not as amused.

"As soon as the rest of our number are converted and bonded, we shall march across Nebulos and liberate the people from their rampant curiosity!"

"Yeah, we know what the big plan is, _my lord._ You've told us fifty times and change by this point. What's next?" Doomshot interrupted.

The Hypnotist stepped forward quickly. "Please excuse my _colleague_ , Lord Zarak. He _meant_ to ask, vat are ve supposed to do next, now zat ve have proved beyond doubt zat ze process vorks?"

Zarak glared at the Armor Engineer as if he was attempting to burn the Decepticon with his gaze. "That's what I thought he meant. Well, your master does indeed have a little project for you. As we speak, I have deployed a number of like-minded operatives all around Nebulon and assorted districts with the objective of gathering up several . . . ah, persons of interest. I want you two to bond them to the most insane, dullest, and generally unsound individuals among your ranks, as a little punishment for daring to be on the wrong side of history."

Doomshot jumped down from the table he was sitting on, with the effect of making him stand a couple of feet taller than the wheelchair-bound President-for-life. "That might not be such a good idea. If you're that pumped to get rid of them, then why not just kill them? If whatever mind-breaking scrap I'm assuming you want us to cram into them fails, you might have a rebellion on your hands."

The President's eyes glittered. "Krunk was an experiment. This new submission software my Institute has created absolutely will not fail. As an answer to your question, Tiny, it never hurts to pad out the ranks, even if those enlisted aren't entirely complacent. That's a basic principle of mandatory service. Besides, quashing rebellion is what Enforcers are for. Before anything else is undertaken, you will complete both Mr. Neon's body and Peace Officer Scott's. Are we clear?"

Mindwipe grimaced slightly. "Another tight schedule, but yes, ve understand."

"Good," Zarak said happily. Suddenly, his wheelchair's integrated radio lit up and buzzed with a direct signal sent to him alone.

"Sorry, gotta take this," the President whispered as if the call had just interrupted a mildly interesting business meeting. "Your one-and-only god here. How may I bestow my touch upon you today, citizen?"

A terrible noise screeched over the radio. It sounded as if someone was attempting to play the entirety of the old Decepticon National Anthem using nothing but a remix of someone dragging their fingernails down a chalkboard. Even Zarak seemed uncomfortable listening to the din.

When it had ceased, Zarak said, "Yes, thank you, Mr. Kalame. Do me a favor and never call this frequency again, or at least until I tell you otherwise. Lord Zarak out."

"Vat in ze name of Unicron vas zat?" Mindwipe asked, tentatively rebooting his audio sensors.

"That," the organic answered, "was one of my underlings. He says my bold contributors to the Nebulan cause have completed their collective missions." Zarak backed up and spun around, out of the ward before he even gained much ground. "Looks like you gentlemen have some work to do."

* * *

 _Some time ago_

Frank Omar finally stumbled out of the bar at 11:30. Although he could have gone somewhere other than this, establishments that sold alcoholic beverages were few and far between on Nebulos. This spaceport cantina was the only place he could go to get drunk enough to forget his worst mistake without having to travel a hundred or so miles to a proper bar.

He hadn't always been like this. At one point, twenty-five years ago, he was the very image of a cool, confident politician with a bright future as President ahead of him. An ex-NSF officer and a man of the people, Frank had thought that he was a shoe-in to lead Nebulos, maintaining the peace and prosperity that the planet had enjoyed for decades. But when election day had finally rolled came and went, Frank hadn't won. Instead, his rival Oshana Zarak seized the Presidency through an intensive bread-and-circus campaign that seemed wholly for the people at first, but had more holes in it than the eponymous rock formations of Whitecliff State. Shortly afterwards, Zarak and his Institute created laws that governed life to the most minute detail and forced everyone on the planet to be rendered complacent under his flagrantly unconstitutional rule.

Every time the President-for-life passed a new doctrine, every time a new Cleansing was commissioned, Frank felt personally responsible. If only he'd pushed just a little harder, if only he'd appealed to the masses a little bit more, these terrible circumstances might never had come to light.

These were the thoughts constantly swirling around in the recesses of his muddled mind as he staggered through the entirely deserted parking lot. Had he not been completely smashed, he may have noticed this. Even the courier vans, used to ferry tourists to wherever they wanted to go at any hour of the day, were quiet and empty.

Frank paid them no heed. He made his way to where he thought he remembered his car being, took a wrong step, and stumbled into the the driver's side door with a loud CLANG.

Eventually he found his way to his feet, muttering all the way, and attempted to fit his key in the lock, which was rather difficult, as there were two of his key and three door locks. Suddenly, Frank was grabbed from behind and pressed against the car. Something sharp and cold was rested at his throat.

Frank squinted, trying to distill the blurry image of his attackers - there was definitely more than one - into recognizable shapes. The man who had the machete pinned at his jugular had coppery skin and looked like he was carved from a block of teakwood. His features were long and cruel and he had a star-patterned bandana tied across his forehead. He wore an expensive fur coat, a kevlar vest, cargo shorts, and not much else, showcasing a number of scars that criss-crossed his body. Though Frank couldn't make out the men behind their apparent leader, they were similarly dressed. Each one wore an assault rifle or two around their necks - or body part serving about the same purpose - and ugly scowls.

"You've picked up some mighty powerful enemies over the years, my friend," the stranger said with a cold grin on his face.

"Who're yeh?" Frank slurred. He had a headache and just wanted to get home.

"Who am I?" the man repeated, laughing. "I don't know how long you've been living under that rock of yours, mate, but you should _really_ get with the times. Y'see, Mr. Omar, I'm the guy who's gonna offer you a new life."

Frank's brain sluggishly worked to lend him a hand and give sense to the words coming out of this person's mouth. "How d'yeh know m' name?"

His assailant looked surprised. "Wow. You really are drunk, aren't you? Like I said, you've got some folks in high places looking for your head. I'm just the guy they sent to collect."

"You-You're gonna kill me?" Frank asked after a moment's delay. Sweat beaded on his temple and he really didn't feel good at all.

"Hahahahahaha! No. I have killed my fair share of politicians, businessmen, and security agents, yes, but you are just not worth the trouble! I mean, going to this bar every night to look for forgiveness in the bottom of a bottle?" He laughed again. Frank couldn't exactly see what was so funny. "Get over it! The Election was the democratic way, Mr. Omar, and you lost. Zarak - he _won,_ mate. There is absolutely nothing that you or anyone else could do about it. At the end of the day, I guess people just want to be ruled, you know?"

Frank thought about this as best as he could under the influence. Was this . . . pirate right? Could that have been the reason he lost all those years ago?

"Anyways. No, I'm not going to kill you. I'm being paid quite handsomely for your safe arrival. Why, I don't know, but in my line of business, I've learned not to take a nice paycheck for granted, even if your target's a downright waste of oxygen and resources. 'Night!"

With that, the man drew back his machete and slammed the butt into a small part of Frank's sweat-soaked head. He threw the body to one of his men, who fumbled to catch the former politician with long, thin, and nearly useless tentacles.

"Take him back to the _Pillager!_ " Farragán Mantillar shouted. "Lord Zarak is paying us big for this drunkard's safe delivery, so no roughing him up or I'll have you kiss Mr. Murtok's daughter!"

There were many grumbles and curses around the ranks as the pirates began to move towards the roof, but Mantillar didn't care. His men may have hated his guts, but the feeling was mutual. If push came to shove, he'd gladly hang them by their ankles - or corresponding body parts - on the prow and let them dangle behind as the _Pillager_ sailed through air and sea.

Joshua Washington felt queasy. Maybe it was his blood sugar steadily dropping, maybe it was bad meat in his breakfast sandwich that morning, but he strongly suspected that his current unease had to do with his boss's new laws regarding the spaceports. Now, all ships coming into Nebulos for all purposes - recreational, commercial, et cetera - were to be combed by an armed security squad before landing. Any undocumented visitors would be shot to death on site, a punishment that was far less than what was visited upon anyone who was unlucky enough to be in possession of an illegal substance of any sort.

Frankly, this scared Joshua. Despite the severe penalty that would be incurred if he voted nay, he had nearly objected just because of the figurative moral slope Zarak and Joshua's colleagues had jumped off of. His own great-great grandfather had arrived on Nebulos stowed away on a cruise ship. It was horrifying to think that if Zarak had been in control back then, Joshua would never have existed. What umbrella effect would this new legislation have? How many people would never be born, simply to keep the streets of Nebulon just that much cleaner?

Sadly, there was nothing he could do about it. The last Council member to publicly disagree with Zarak - some old man named something-or-other Isurus - had been exiled, even his name stricken from history. No one knew where he was now for over twelve years, and he was still number ten on the Wanted Persons List. Joshua didn't want to be the target of a hundred-year manhunt, so he had reluctantly gone along with the vote, hating himself the whole way.

He opened his lunchbox, which contained a sandwich made with hard bread and cheese, three vitamin pills, and some strange vegetable from Earth called a "banana." The Cabinet member picked up the sandwich, raised it to his mouth, and was just taking a bite when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Message for you, Councilman Washington. It's from High Honorable President-for-life Lord Zarak," said the man standing behind him. He had a very slight accent that Joshua couldn't exactly place, and a thin, almost wolfish, build. His teeth were bared, not in an overly friendly way but an "I've-sized-you-up-and-found-you-lacking" one.

"Yeah. What is it?" Joshua asked, not deterred by the man's appearance. You met a lot of shady characters in this business.

The man's yellow-tinged eyes slid around the breakroom, studying everything in it up to and including the people. "I can't tell you here. Too many unimportant ears, if you get the gist. Follow me, we'll go somewhere a bit quieter."

Joshua gazed longingly at his lunch, but followed. A message direct from Oshana Zarak was not to be taken lightly.

The unexplained messenger led him to a spot directly in front of a deific statue of none other than the President himself. Honestly, he was getting tired of dealing with always ripped, normally shirtless statues of his superior everywhere he went. On a nearly everyday basis he was face-to-face with the subject, who really wasn't anything like how he was portrayed in the art. In Joshua's opinion, the statues were a waste of resources and took up space that could easily be used in much better ways.

"All right. What's Oshana want now?" he asked. He was starving and couldn't wait to try that "banana" that everyone was talking about.

"A soldier, Mr. Washington. Lord Zarak wants a soldier." A burly mountain of a man limped out from behind the base of the statue and proceeded towards Joshua. He recognized this newcomer as John "Monzo" Neon, a famous hyperwrestler from a few years back.

"Monzo? All right, what's this business? It's not my birthday or anything as far as I know, so-" was all he could say before John hit him with a haymaker to the jaw.

"Thanks for the decoy, Mr. Gévaudan," Monzo said, hooking his arm under Joshua's. "This traitor wouldn't'a trusted me enough to get him anywhere special."

The smaller man growled. "Remind me again why my time in particular had to be taken up for this."

But Monzo was already limping back to the secret passage behind the statue. "I dunno. Why that cheapskate didn't call in one'a his bounty hunters I ain't sure of either. Guess we was just both in the wrong place at the wrong time. Thanks anyways."

"Apparently. See you at the next meeting," the other called after the former hyperwrestler as he disappeared once more into Zarak's Basement. He watched the busy halls just long enough for the door to close before leaving.

Simon Gévaudan was hungry. He supposed there was still time to pop out to the Garden and grab a quick bite before lunch break was over. And so he departed.

"OK, bye! Hope the new muffler works to government specifications!"

As Zephyr Zigatto turned away from the newest less-than-satisfied customer at Aeolus Auto Shop & Body (any vehicle, any make, any planet), he muttered some very unflattering words. This idiot, some stuck-up patriarch of a family of Narvids on vacation, had been the eighth person in a row to bring up an issue of Zephyr's incompetence. Ridiculous. Zephyr wasn't incompetent - his grades from Arvassia Technical confirmed that - but being a grease monkey just didn't seem to be what he was made to do. Granted, he was terrible at mostly everything else, but he just simply understood engineering.

"Meskar, I'm gonna take lunch break. Cover my shift, will ya?"

His coworker, an obsidian-black creature with bored, glowing red eyes, merely grunted, absentmindedly fiddling with a crescent wrench as he watched a rerun of _Laugh Like Crazy!_

Zephyr made his way to the back of the shop, traveled through the staff breakroom and exited the building. Once outside in the back alley, he reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a lighter and a box of Victory Cigarettes, and lit up. He took a long draw and gazed up at the sky, wondering what he was really meant for.

"Nice family. Did they know that you installed the wrong model of muffler?" a voice asked, causing Zephyr to jump. He threw the cigarette in th gutter as he turned to face the young woman with acid-green eyes sitting casually on a nearby Dumpster.

"What are you doing here, lady? This area's for Aeolus Auto Shop & Body personnel only!" he declared, pointing at the NO LOITERING sign above the trash bin that was clearly marked in five universal languages, as was mandatory for all public notices.

"I'll leave when I'm ready, old man. Before I do, though, I've got a payday I need to collect."

Zephyr backed away in stone-cold realization, with no small bit of fear, as the woman's skin rose up on end, flipping over itself and becoming the scaly carapace of a Reptilian.

Bill Wadd was hurrying back to the hotel after a very nice - and visually remarkable - lunch at the Gardens of Eternal Peace and Harmony. The macrobiotic meal had filled him up quite well, and he was now ready to give his presentation at the "Commercecon" event held annually in Nebulon. The other CEOs would be jealous when he educated them all (in the form of a ridiculously long presentation) on the record levels of productivity at Victory Co., how important their products were to the people of Nebulos, and the new environmentally friendly direction he was taking the company. Morale of his workers was, of course, a nonissue.

In particular, Bill couldn't wait to rub his practice of "weeding out" all of those who contributed negatively to the company in any way, which he called "Waddism" in Arnhild Grax's face. The young upstart thought he was something special with his supermarkets and industrial complexes? Wait until he saw the uptick in sales of Victory Communication Devices in the past Galactic year alone.

Feeling satisfied both physically and emotionally, Bill almost didn't notice the scene that was occurring just down the alleyway to his left. A month ago, he probably wouldn't have even noticed it at all. When he did, after taking a moment to fully process what he just saw, he executed a perfect double take on the spot.

A Reptilian was carrying an older gentleman, dressed in a mechanic's uniform, draped over her shoulders. The man appeared dead and had a smoking wound festering on his neck.

Bill was no doctor, but he was of the personal opinion that any wound that actively had smoke coming out of it was a bad thing. He noticed that he was gaping and closed his mouth just as the Reptilian saw him. Her yellow eyes snapped to him in a second.

"Thisss doessn't concern you, citizen. Government businesss. Move along."

The thing Bill wanted the least today was to get sent to the Rock, so he complied. However, for the rest of his walk back to the hotel he was alert, subconsciously scanning his surroundings for hidden cameras. If what he saw was a _Laugh Like Crazy!_ prank, then Kreb Lafferty should have made his presence known by now. That only left one possibility, one that he wasn't quite sure he was ready to open himself up to yet.

He'd been in an incident several weeks back that he was still feeling the aftershocks of. Part of his nightmarish experience had to do with the President-for-life himself recruiting a group of killer alien robots for a sinister plan - after the former party had slaughtered an innocent family for laughs. Though Bill buried himself in work to forget about it like he was told every day by the newscasters, he was constantly fearful that an army of evil robots would march through the streets of Nebulon at any moment to "reindoctrinate our beloved planet."

And though a small, mad part of him vehemently denied it, he was beginning to fall out of favor with the Zarak Institute.

Sean rapped his knuckles on the tabletop and anxiously checked his watch for the fourth time. This guy was supposed to be here by now.

The former captain of the NSF SWAT team, Sean Pliney had just recently been demoted all the way down to a desk worker along with the rest of his squadmates. In their places, a ruthless group of psychopaths hand-picked by the President himself were assembled, presently handling both curfew patrol and any enforcement job the politicians wanted them to take. Rarely, they were deployed to take down a Wanted in what always turned out to be all-out bloodbaths, regardless of how dangerous the perpetrator was. Money was tight for everyone who had been in Sean's squad and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. So here he was, in a dingy bar just outside of Koraja, about to meet with a "certifiable purveyor of authentic and rare goods." Joy.

Just then, a seedy-looking man looking to be in his mid-forties slid into the booth adjacent to his. He was wearing a wrinkled white button-up open down to his sternum underneath a ratty black longcoat. The very second Sean saw the coat, he knew this was his man.

"Sorry I'm late. Traffic was terrible," the peddler said, drinking from a flask that he took from inside his coat. Undoubtedly there were plenty more illegal goods stashed in the various pockets, but Sean reluctantly derailed that train of thought.

"Look, buddy, I don't care what holes you had to jump through to get here. Heck, if this was any other day, I'd report you to the Enforcers myself. I'm just trying to buy up some tickets offworld so my boys can make a better living for themselves someplace else. Here's the ten thousand Galactic Units you asked for in our agreement." He tentatively slid the money across the table. "Could I _please_ have the tickets now and get this crap over and done with?" Sean asked, a little angry at the man for putting him in this dangerous situation.

But the man, instead of agreeing to fork over the tickets that Sean could now quite literally see poking out of a particularly large rip on his jacket, slowly picked up the units and combed through them, as if checking for defects. "Yeah. About that. See, I was recently evicted from my apartment - rising rates, unpaid bills, that kinda thing. Lightly speaking, I need a bit more moolah to make ends meet in addition to this - heh - _very_ nice wad of cash you've managed to scrape together."

Sean's fists involuntarily clenched on the tabletop. " _No_."

"My price's just gone up," the man said with a smarmy grin on his face. It did not go unnoticed by Sean that he didn't give back the units that he and his friends had barely rustled up. This scanty amount had just about bankrupted everyone who used to be on the team and there was absolutely no chance that Sean would be able to get the required amount in time.

"Tell ya what. I'll leave you here to mull things over while I use the little boy's room. It's been a long trip," the peddler all but chirped, leaving the units on the table as he whisked off. Sean stared at the pile of money, a fierce battle brewing inside his head. Part of him wanted to do anything for his brothers-in-arms, but the monolithic cost loomed menacingly over him. There had to be a better way to do this . . . but he couldn't see it.

"Ouch. I'm not sure what that was about, but, my friend, I'm afraid you just got scammed," a smooth voice said from directly behind him.

"What's it to you?" Sean grumbled back. How hard could it be to simply up and leave a planet? He could almost feel his mood physically sinking to rock bottom.

"Well, I happen to know all about that con you're in the process of makin' a deal with. This might come as a news flash, but you're not the first person he's robbed outta house and home. You shouldn't invest any trust in him whatsoever."

"Do tell," Sean said, now listening to every word this newcomer had to say.

"Well, ol' Sammy Queen's a bit of a pariah in the purveyin' community. He's been known to never deliver on his offers if he can help it. Truth be told, he's actually a Wanted, if you can believe that. You wanna know why he was so late?"

"Yeah. Traffic's fine this time of day. I didn't buy his excuse."

"And well you shouldn't have!" the man in the booth behind Sean declared. "No, he was keepin' low, hidin' his face from the Enforcers. Anyways . . . What was he tryin' to tempt ya with? Offworld tickets, right?"

"Yes. I ask again, why do you care?" the former SWAT captain asked.

"As I said before, I dabble in givin' honest folk what they want, no price jumps, no complications. What did Slick ask ya for? Ten thousand units? I'll beat that price."

"By how much?"

"How does eight thousand for fifteen whole tickets sound to ya? Come over to my table. We can discuss it over a few drinks."

"Flarging deal," Sean said, hope quickly returning to his soul. "Who am I going to be doing business with?"

The man in the next booth looked around the divider. He seemed trustworthy enough, with a nice suit, short silver hair, and an indulgent grin formed after years of good transactions. "Lawrence Vorbo, at your service. Drinks are on me."

Though Sean wasn't the kind of man to drink - or make deals with con men, for that matter - he found himself enamored by Vorbo's easygoing manner and agreed to have negotiations over a glass of wine. Indeed, he didn't even notice that the first con never returned to the booth directly behind him.

"Well, here ya go. Fifteen genuine tickets for an offworld ferry. That should be enough ta get your boys out, shouldn't it?" Vorbo said, handing over a neatly wrapped bundle of official papers.

"That's absolutely perfect," Sean affirmed, finishing his drink and making to stand up. "Good doing business with you, Lawrence."

"The pleasure, my friend, is all mine," the other man returned as he shook the former Enforcer's hand. Sean turned to leave, but soon discovered that his legs weren't exactly working right and fell to the ground, suddenly numb.

 _I've been drugged!_ he reasoned immediately, trying to get up, but instead of being alarmed, most of him thought _That's fine. I need sleep, anyways._

"Everyone step back! This man's had a little much to drink!" Vorbo shouted, stepping in and slinging one of Sean's rapidly heavying arms around his neck. "You, there! Help me get him to his car, will ya?"

A smaller, scrawny man with a torn black coat came to his aid and took the other arm. Together, they carried the down-and-out officer out into the deserted parking lot, past his car, and cleanly into the back of a black SUV.

"I call dibs on his wallet," Samuel "Slick" Queen said once he had straightened up.

"You kidding me? I did most of the work."

" _And_ got eight thousand units out of the deal. I set the scene, and I should get whatever's left!"

Vorbo threw up his hands. "Whatever. Zarak'll still deliver our due. Do what ya want."

After Slick had stripped Sean Pliney of anything that could feasibly contain any value, he slipped into the passenger seat. The two con men left for the city of Nebulon just as the suns set over Koraja.

Father Hadrio blew out the last candle on the altar, folded up what was quite possibly the last Holy Banner of Zetca on Nebulos for the night, and retreated to his desk to get some work done before finally retiring. The fields out back all had to be harvested before noon tomorrow, the ceiling over the main sanctuary needed to be repaired, and, of course, several more members of the clergy had to be reassigned to guard duty. And so, he began the chores list to be placed over the sleeping quarters door once the suns rose.

Recently, the Zarak Institute had increased hostilities against the harmless congregation with the ultimate goal of decimating any religion on the planet that refused to follow the President-for-life. The Church had to shrink farther into the mountainous countryside, first fleeing the Old Cathedral in the heart of the Whitecliff city-state, then to a long-abandoned monastery by the sea, and now into a tiny country church in the woods that was barely enough to hold the entire worship. The next place that Father Hadrio had in mind in case of emergency was up into the hills and mountains. At least then, they could be closer to Zetca than any of them had ever been before.

Yes, the life of a religious refugee was hard. But it was worth it to still worship the god that had lit the way for them since they were born, rather than falling into the hole of dictator-worship.

A board creaked in the sanctuary, causing Father Hadrio to look up from his toil. He took off his glasses so he could easily discern the source of the noise. There, in the shadows, was a tall, skinny 19-year-old member of the congregation named Ephraim.

"Ah, hello, my son. What's on your mind?" Hadrio said with an indulgent smile. The teenager sank into the rickety chair just across from him and heaved a great sigh before speaking.

"Father . . . I don't understand why we have to live this life," he mumbled, never meeting Hadrio's eyes. "We're put through so much suffering, so many difficulties. Why have we been picked to take so much punishment from Zarak? Why did it have to be us?"

Hadrio thought this through for a while before answering. "Ephraim, small men often require a scapegoat, an enemy if you will, to distract themselves from their own crippling inadequacy. The President is a weak, insecure man on the inside, so he needs to feel . . . important. It just so happens that he only feels safe when crowds are screaming his name, worshipping him as a false god. We are, to my knowledge, the only right-minded Nebulans on the planet that refused his blasphemous needs. We are the dissenters from the masses, and thus we must be destroyed. Do you understand?"

Ephraim swallowed that information and nodded shakily.

"None of this means that you are a bad person, son. Quite the contrary, in fact. Once the President is inevitably ejected from his position, you will be remembered as being among the few that risked death to worship the _right_ god. You are, even right now, a hero for sticking true to your values even in the face of great adversity. Congratulations."

The teen looked much better about his position in life, but still obviously had something on his chest. "Then why does Zetca still let us be hurt?"

Father Hadrio smiled again, sadly this time. "Zetca has a plan for every one of us. Our pain may seem overwhelming now, yes, but many years from now, it will be insubstantial."

Now Ephraim was smiling too. He and the clergy leader sat there, united in newfound optimism and thinking of the future. Despite the nigh-insurmountable odds stacked against them, they could almost feel content.

Suddenly, the doors to the sanctuary flew open and the lookout for the night, a middle-aged woman named Ana, ran in scared out of her mind.

"They're coming! They've found us! Wake the congregation!" was all she could say before the rage-filled staccato snaps of silenced gunfire echoed off of the vaulted ceiling and put an abrupt end to Ana's screams. To Hadrio's terror, seven green laser sights lanced through the air as the dreaded Nebulon SWAT team poured into the small church.

"I want four units to sweep the grounds! Kill anyone you see, then doubletap to make sure, gentlemen!" a harsh voice barked. Light filled the church as the double doors were broken in by a battering ram, allowing the blinding headlights of the SWAT van to fully illuminate the interior.

Efsim Jevik, the cruel second-in-command of Nebulos's most feared organization, stomped into the sanctuary with a military-grade tactical assault rifle leveled at Father Hadrio's head. At the first sight of Jevik's towering height, metal eyepatch, and cloven hooves, Hadrio got between the boy and the intimidating Satyian. He knew it wouldn't do much, but he could at least give Ephraim a few more moments of life if Jevik's infamous trigger finger twitched at an inopportune moment.

"Father Atricelli Hadrio, I presume?" the brutal Enforcer growled as a maddened fusillade of gunfire erupted in the sleeping chambers. "We're going to need to ask you a few questions."

"'Ve've gut all of ze final subjects,' he says. 'Tailveep, retrieve ze Plagues for ze bunding process,' he says. He'll be lucky if I get out alive with his little science projects," the Decepticon Enforcer grumbled. His tail flicked agitatedly as he climbed the staircase to the fifth floor.

For a moment, Tailwhip was filled with trepidation at the prospect of merely coming into contact with the last surviving members of Cyclonus's armada - deformed and insane mechs, each one of them. But in interest of keeping face as a brave Decepticon warrior, he drew himself up and marched into the cell block.

"Alright, ya freaks, look alive! It's just about time for a makeover!" he shouted, spinning his tail as if it were a grappling hook. He unlocked all the doors on that floor with a click of a button on the control remote, and the Five Plagues of Unicron slithered out of their holding cells.

Powerclean, a former sanitation agent, was farthest along in his infection. The mech had taken on a patina of sea-green and Sweep blue that was not easy on the optics. It looked as if he was attempting to collapse in on himself in an effort to escape from the innumerable pathogens he perceived around himself. There was the honorable Carnagon, who, once a pro-neutrality Senate member, was now fervently reciting the entirety of _Towards Peace_ from memory, occasionally devolving into mantras about the extermination of all non-Decepticons.

Beside him stood Furnace, a torture technician from the heat of war. In the final stages of his Sweep infection, he'd regressed back to his old ways and had a penchant for practicing new . . . forms on himself. Tailwhip flinched as the Plague stuck one of is long pink claws through his palm.

A former Communications mech, Pestilence, dropped from the ceiling of his cell, landing on all fours and uttering random dial-up tones as he crawled into the hallway. The rest of the Decepticon Rebels, Tailwhip included, wished that the final notes of the Sweep transformation would hurry up and get it over with. Pestilence was feared even by the most hardened of Rebels, simply because he was the absolute vilest of the five. When Scourge had infected him, his cassettes were trapped inside of their creator's chest as the spark mutation burned through Pestilence's being and, shortly thereafter, perished. Their grayed forms were still inside of Pestilence, a fact that turned every Rebel that Tailwhip knew of off of their morning Energon.

The last Plague to exit their cell was Acidbath, little more than an enormous pile of cables and internal organs vaguely arranged in the shape of a Sweep. Acidbath used to be a Nova Cronum scholar no taller than a single mechanometer. In turning into a Sweep, the diminutive Acidbath's internals violently ejected themselves from his body, leaving the scholar the mess of machinery that he was now.

Tailwhip swallowed hard and his cooling fans activated. It had to be him, fetching these borderline monsters. Though the larger amount of fear he had was mostly masked by his flight helm, he was fairly certain he'd heard stories about the Sweeps being capable of smelling fear.

"Right. Uh, Lord Zarak wants you all in the surgical ward _now,_ so get moving! No funny business or I'll get nasty! Yeah!" he commanded, sounding ten times more confident than he felt, despite having his weapon - an Adhesive-Based Criminal Deterrent Cannon - drawn. The Plagues obliged, each one making some degree of threatening noise as they passed him.

Suddenly, Acidbath reared up on several cables and made a break for the back of the prison.

"Oh no you don't!" Tailwhip shouted, quickly gluing the Plague's bottom half to the ground with one shot from his cannon. With his other hand, he threw his tail and whacked the rogue Sweep in the head hard enough to stun it. The Enforcer swiftly grabbed Acidbath by some construct in his midsection that may have once been a spinal column and tossed the whole creature down the stairs.

In the nearest cell, Scourge listened to his creation let out an electronic scream even as the Enforcer shouted something about needing to clean the floor now, thank you very much.

So the Creator of the Armada wasn't meant to be free quite yet. Very well. Sooner or later, Scourge would be begged to exit the prison to fight in Zarak's pitiful army. Until then, he would bide his time . . . then lash out like the deadly Protonwinder at everyone who was foolish enough to dare stand against him.

A single bead of oil slid down Brainstorm's faceplates as he worked. This operation - the Powermasters, he called them, after the MTF the Resistance members were to be bonded to - was just about the most difficult thing that he had ever faced.

The Powermasters, like the Headmasters but much more delicate, required the Autobot who was to be bonded to physically be next to the new Resistance suit. Being as the process had to do with several vital organs, one misstep could be fatal for both the Autobot on the surgical slab and the young industrial-grade spark inside the suit.

 _Why did I think of this?_ he thought in his panic. For both of the other new Powermasters he had said the same thing, only to come back for more after each Autobot was finished. It didn't help his emotional state that the mech in front of him, Slapdash, was the youngest Autobot on the _Fortress Maximus_. Brainstorm had tried his hardest to put off the kid's operation, at least until he knew what he was doing, but the kid had insisted.

There they were - Häer Thenthow, Brainstorm, and Slapdash, the latter laid out with his chest spread wide open. Nearby, the suit - in its engine form - that was to be made compatible with the young mech was being held by a spare robotic arm that Brainstorm had built between operations. With delicate hands, Brainstorm whittled out a direct access point into Slapdash's spark chamber, being careful not to touch the glowing blue crystal that, quite literally, made up the young boy's soul.

"Thenthow, this is the most delicate part in an already bloody difficult process. Hand me that circular saw, will you?"

"Of course," Häer said, giving the twenty-five pound instrument to the Engineer.

Using it with a single motion, Brainstorm cut a wide depression in Slapdash's alloy that would comfortably accommodate the new Powermaster. He was just reconnecting the Interceptor's chest armor when, like a storm front appearing out of nowhere, disaster struck. EKG indicators slammed from green to red as an alarm blared and Slapdash's digits began to twitch erratically.

"Frag! FragfragfragfragFRAG!" Brainstorm swore, doing everything he could to grant Slapdash a few more seconds of life.

"What's happening?" Häer shouted.

"It's his slagging spark! It's reacting violently to outside air! Quick, get the unit on before he offlines!"

Häer dove for the controls for the arm and manipulated it to the best of his ability. Though the advanced Nebulan dynamics combined with a twist of Cybertronian engineering were at the top of their classes, the arm still seemed far too slow as it arced downward, towards the Autobot that they both hoped it would save.

Finally, Brainstorm took the engine from the arm's grip and lowered it into position with a mighty grunt.

To their surprise, the suit immediately took to Slapdash. The medical monitors switched back to normal, the alarm shut itself off, and Slapdash's vitals returned to normal, even operating at a higher efficiency than when Brainstorm had begun the operation. Superficial gears on the outside of the engine-suit spun, assuring the Autobot and the Nebulan that the suit had, without a doubt, fixed any problems that either part hosted.

Brainstorm, however, was not calmed. The Engineer slumped into the nearby doctor's chair, face ashen and optics wide with terror.

 _I almost killed a kid,_ was the single thought that echoed in his mind, temporarily shutting down his almost permanently active subroutines. _I almost killed a kid._

"Stop . . . stop it," the Rebel muttered to himself, slapping his face to stay conscious and leaving a glowing purple handprint in the process. The body in front of him slid in and out of focus like a bad camera, which made it pretty difficult to cut in any sort of straight line. However, he was almost finished with this Targetmaster surgery. After this, he could recharge before entering the next leg of operations that he needed to get done.

Finally, he slammed the newly-made Hybrid's chest armor into position, took a moment to ensure its vitals were in order, and unhooked one side of an IV supplying Energon from its neck strut. He was absolutely dead on his feet and it felt as if he was going to go into emergency recharge at any moment now. With nary a thought about the matter, he brought the loose end to his mouth and took a long drink, drawing the fuel straight from Samba - the Hybrid who was currently on the slab.

The organic fluids made a strange mix with the life-giving liquid that almost made Mindwipe recoil in disgust, but at the moment he was too tired to care. He hung up the end of the IV tube and stormed out of the surgery ward once he was assured that Samba wasn't contaminated by his draught in any way.

He squinted as he exited the room, which had been closed up for this particular operation. Even the pale, fluorescent-lighted Basement seemed bright for him after staring into a Hybrid's body cavity for - he had set his internal chronometer to check - six days, eight hours, and sixteen minutes with hardly a break.

The Organic had been riding Mindwipe's heels for that long, coming in once every 12 hours to see if the Hypnotist was still working on the members of the Hive. By now, Zarak was one of the only Nebulans who hadn't been upgraded to a Hybrid yet - the President said he wanted to "make an impact when my time comes." Mindwipe knew, however, that he just wanted a force of soldiers behind the Decepticon's back as a contingency during his own operation, should Mindwipe decide to simply plunge the scalpel into Zarak's head as soon as the President went under anesthesia.

Finally! There was the door to the barracks, standing open as if to welcome him. He began to move up the steps to the enticing recharge slab when a very large hand on his shoulder stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Where are you going, Cybertronian?" a husky voice with a similar accent to his own snarled.

Mindwipe glanced behind his shoulder, already irritable with fatigue. The person figuratively standing between him and the blessed release of recharge was a Hybrid, standing easily a half mechanometer above him. The creature, for that was what they were in Mindwipe's optics, had a cannon attached to his dynametal-bound right arm. The rest of him was similarly bulky and brawny, with little highlights of red breaking up his deep purple and orange body. Two missile pods were situated on his broad shoulders. After going through the Targetmaster process and being bonded to the berserker Assault mech, Quake, this Nebulan had taken the name "Tiptop."

"I'm trying to get a few moments of recharge," Mindwipe rebutted. "I vas told zat I vould be able to before beginning on ze Powermasters."

A sneer that somehow cut deeper into Tiptop's face than the one he had been wearing beforehand stretched over his brutish visage. "Schedule has been bumped up. Zarak demands Powermasters by next veek."

Mindwipe's optics were definitely starting to glitch from lack of power now. Strange colors swam across his vision, and he could almost sense the oncoming hallucinations borne from self-replaying archived footage. "Next veek? If I am vithout energy for zat long, ze task is impossible!"

Tiptop growled and tossed the much smaller Decepticon off of the barracks steps. "Make it possible. Or-" he made a gesture that quite clearly illustrated what the President would do if Mindwipe refused, "- you die."

The Hypnotist bared his denta in anger, returning Tiptop's snarl, and lurked off to the surgical ward once more. This time he was staggering a little more than usual as his vision glitched over and over, but what could he do in the face of this much adversity?

Mega-Octane wasn't doing much when the Hybrid came to fetch his team.

One moment he was doing his 80 daily transform-ups with the rest of the Commandos, and the next he was being harshly ushered down to the utilities that crowded the shadows of the Basement by one of the Decepticons' new "partners". This one, he was sure, had renamed himself Grax and was binary bonded to the Rebels' resident cannibal - Skullsmasher.

"Hold up! What's the situation? You can't handle us like this!" he barked, sticking up for his team the only way that he could at the moment.

"There's been a change in plans. You're all having your operations _now._ And for the record, yes," he hit Mega-Octane with one scaly arm, causing the Hybrid to cry out in pain and the Cybertronian to pitch forward, "- I _can_ handle you like this."

Mega-Octane tried to counterattack, but Grax wrenched his arm so he was again helplessly trudging forward. He sent several encouragement bursts to his team along with some stern warnings, knowing that any fighting could see the Commandos imprisoned in the monolithic jail - or worse.

Now the entrance to Mindwipe's surgery ward could be plainly seen, the Hypnotist himself standing just outside. Something was off about the scene, particularly the strange way he was holding himself. The aristocratic poise that Mindwipe usually held was completely absent from the Rebel's smaller frame, replaced by an angry slump. His claws and dental plates were bared as he twitched his fingers about without end, something he would never do alone, much less in public. From this distance, Mega-Octane could even see the Hypnotist's lips moving as if he was whispering feverishly to someone close by, and immediately recognized what was unfolding before the tense procession's collective optics.

Mega-Octane had been a chief Fueler in the ranks for years before ascending to this lofty command position when the Decepticon Empire fell. He knew the signs and symptoms of cybertanium depletion, tainted fuel, and, most relevant to the situation, energy starvation. Mindwipe had been working in the ward for Primus-knew-how-long, and was obviously ready to fall over.

He pushed away from Grax as his team started to stir a little, having been front-and-center to his startling revelation.

"Look, Mindwipe seems a little worn out, OK? Do you think it's a really good idea to have someone who's clearly hallucinating operate on -AGH!"

"MOVE!" another Hybrid, Monzo, screamed, hitting Mega-Octane straight in the helm with the butt of his spike-studded club. The Commandos started to fight the moment their commander was assaulted, but even the highly-trained gestalt team was rendered nearly useless in the face of the twenty-something half-Nebulan warriors that rushed to Monzo and Grax's aid, some even accompanied in the neutralization by their fully Cybertronian partners.

Through a haze of alerts and memory circuit feedbacks, Mindwipe grimaced. This riot was essentially brothers fighting against brothers, and for what? Keeping on the good side of a despotic overlord while any dissenters rotted in prison?

But there was nothing he could say on the matter. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that, like it or not, he was a firmly ingrained cog in this grotesque machine, a system that kept turning and turning without any end in sight.

FIN


	7. Drachenkämpf

**Author's Note:** Yes, yes, I'm not dead! Just extraordinarily busy, that's all. It's taken me a ridiculous amount of time to get this story ready, and I apologize for that.

I'm not going to bore you with many details about what caused this huge time gap, because I know you just want to escape from real life for a little bit and do some light reading. In that spirit, I'll just say that the companion piece on DeviantArt is now up and can be found in my Hive, Nebulan Decepticons, and catch-all Decepticon galleries under the names of "Decepticon Snapdragon I" and "Decepticon Snapdragon II." Please, enjoy the prose! It's more actiony than normal - and, on top of that, mandatory!

-The Doctor (Do)

* * *

From here, there was no other option.

He'd exhaustively thought this through since the moment he'd been rounded up like an animal and thrown into this tiny cell. It was risky, yes, but at the moment, what else could he do? Sit in here and rot in squalor as his allies - including his lifelong best friend - did the same, only let out to work pacification jobs for an organic he couldn't care less about? Unlikely.

Snapdragon had played through this scenario one hundred and thirty times in his mind before. He knew exactly how every aspect of his plan would unfold and had taken lengths to ensure that it couldn't go wrong. Now, all he had to do was wait for his moment.

Snapdragon was good at waiting. In the center of the cell, he sat, watching his surroundings like a predator with his chest-mounted indicator lights turned down low. To the casual observer, it would seem as if the Horrorcon was recharging as he was infamous for back on Cybertron, when in reality he was sharp and alert as anyone else in the Organic's monolithic keep. Despite, of course, his new sensor arrays and lack of a head.

Across the hall in the cell adjacent to his own, the Swamp Warrior Skullsmasher was attempting to spend his incarceration in fitful recharge. Occasionally he would mutter a half-verbalized apology to some unresponsive person before falling quiet again, but such matters were irrelevant to Snapdragon's interests.

His internal chronometer chimed once. 1345 hours Kaon time - by wartime law, the warden should be along with afternoon rations any moment now. Even as he heard Tailwhip enter the cell block now - "Lunchtime, glitches!" - Snapdragon slumped over, perfectly mimicking the field recharges he partook in so often. It took several moments as the Enforcer worked his way down the hall, distributing Energon, but soon the Horrorcon sensed a presence directly outside of his cell's door.

"Yo, Crapdragon! Get up, ya lazy slob! It's lunchtime!" the harsh voice barked. Tailwhip wasn't expecting the Interceptor to do anything, much less spring into action and seize his arm so hard that his armor dented. The armful of Energon cubes that he had been carrying, custom-made by Mega-Octane himself, toppled to the floor as the Horrorcon yanked him toward the cell door.

"Hey! What are you-" was all that left his vocoder before Snapdragon put him in a rudimentary headlock against the bars, choking off any further vocalization except terrified gurgles. A single enormous hand grasped the back of his helm and tightened, warping it ever so slightly out of place. From here he watched as Skullsmasher leapt off of the oversized cot in his own cell and clutched the bars, suddenly interested in the events unfolding across the hall.

"Open your subspace, traitor, or I wrench your head from your body - as Mindwipe and Zarak did to mine!" the Horrorcon growled, tightening his grip further just to prove the point.

The Enforcer summoned his final shred of courage from a very small pool to draw from and caustically spat back. "I'm not listening to a last-minute Dinobot knockoff, Horrorcon scum!"

"NOW!" Snapdragon roared, slamming the much smaller mech against the door.

Tailwhip's meager will crumbled like a weather-beaten cliff into the sea of cowardice he held within him. The small tear in space crackled open to his right and Snapdragon thrust his hand into it, holding Tailwhip by the neck in case the Enforcer closed it before he could withdraw.

He rifled through his personal effects - three guns, a cleaning rag, several cans of paint, a steamy romance datapad, and - yes! The remote given to the Enforcer by the fleshling Liam Boll, warm from the remarkable load of running the entire prison. He pressed the red button marked EMERGENCY LOCK/UNLOCK ALL and smashed the device to pieces against the nearest wall.

Emergency lights activated and an alarm blared as every cell door in the prison was violently slung open. Snapdragon deftly took up the Enforcer's eponymous tail, tied it to the door, and opened it with more force than was strictly necessary. It slammed against Tailwhip's battered helm once, and Snapdragon left the Enforcer hanging there, unconscious and suspended by his precious appendage.

The corridor was complete chaos as every Decepticon interred scrambled to escape first. A lone stairwell was the only reliable exit, crammed with Cybertronians of all descriptions and colors, fighting and jockeying to get out. Slay-Ride, a questionably sane berserker from some Northern city-state, fell at Snapdragon's pedes from a higher level, grappling with the Flier Misfire.

Without slowing down, the Horrorcon swept Slay-Ride up, holding the smaller mech by one arm, and threw him bodily down the stairs.

"Thanks, friend! Guess we Interceptors gotta stick together, amirite?" the jet called after Snapdragon, who paid him no further heed. After all, he had a mission to accomplish. Slay-Ride struck weakly at his heels as he passed, stunned from the impact, but with the Warrior's spirit in his very spark, Snapdragon knew that his fugue likely wouldn't last a minute.

A substantial bottleneck had developed on the lower floor, but Snapdragon was a large mech and forged easily through the crowd. He pushed by the out-of-his-league fashion designer Needlenose and two other mechs, one of which was a scrawny purple creature who was allegedly the first Hybrid; along with a smaller black femme who moved as if one of her limbs were offline. The prison door, which already had several Rebels making to break it down, was a simple bulkhead with a barred window, more suited for the interior of a submarine or a bank vault than standing up against a large number of _very_ angry Decepticon Rebels.

Though the door was securely locked with no less than five Nebulan steel deadbolts, Snapdragon and the angry mob behind him broke through and into the industrialist fluorescent lighting of Zarak's Basement with only four semi-coordinated slams.

Several newly-made Hybrids shouted in alarm when the first few Rebels charged straight for them, fists clenched and denta bared. Snapdragon and a few other, smarter, Decepticons, however, slunk away to the armory while their aggressors were busy with the more unthinkingly brutish prisoners.

Snapdragon pried open the octagonal box labeled with his name and ensured his weapons were in working order. One Mark VII Impedion Torque Rifle, also known as "gyro-guns" - check. Carbon-steel Hydrite's Fall greatswords, stolen from some history museum in Kalis, two, check. A collection of spidery Interceptor's knives, five, check. A laser pistol for emergencies, check, along with some assorted personal items and his weapons chip- check.

He was just turning to leave when a familiar stench tripped his olfactory sensors and forced his systems to unintentionally release anti-corrosive gas as a necessary precaution. He'd know that smell anywhere, even without the enthusiastic greeting that followed.

"Snapdragon, ol' pal!" a voice as familiar as the scent spoke up. "Nice job with that little glitch Tailwhip. I tell ya, if someone wasn't gonna take 'im out as he was makin' his rounds soon, I was gonna do it myself!"

A sudden cloud rolled onto Snapdragon's meticulously crafted plan. "Hello, Apeface," he replied after a single subtle cough.

"So what's next?" Apeface asked excitedly as he opened his own weapons container. "Terrorism? Pillaging? Getting off of this dump of a planet and heading back to Cybertron?

For the first time in his life, Snapdragon didn't feel like opening up to his best - and only - friend. "Apeface, I-no. I'm sorry."

The Saboteur faltered. "W-what d'ya mean, _no?_ We're Horrorcons! Terrorism and pillaging are what we were built for! As for getting out of here - heh - don't tell me you're actually getting _attached_ to this pit!"

"That's not it, my friend." Snapdragon sighed sharply. "I have a plan - one to free _all_ of our comrades, not just you and I. I-I am sorry, but you are not a part of it."

Even though Apeface was now lacking a head as well, Snapdragon could still read him by his body language and their Amica bond. The former Horrorcon stiffened up and his lights flashed in barely-constrained anger even as a white-hot wave of fury rolled over the bond. In a voice that radiated calm fury, he growled, "Do tell."

Very well. No use in lying. "I'm . . . going to draw the Autobots to this location."

Apeface's demeanor suddenly took a sharp turn for the worse. His lights and armor flared and he screamed, "ARE YOU SLAGGING *urp* KIDDING ME? That's an absolutely terrible idea! No! As your wingman, Snapdragon, I will NOT let you make this choice! There's got to be a better-ARGH!"

A spindly green-and-white Hybrid with an enormous blade in place of a right forearm suddenly leapt up on top of Apeface and began to relentlessly strike his torso area with its only real fist. The two jets Dreadwind and Darkwing rose up from behind with two stun guns as well.

Ignoring his first instinct to help his best friend, Snapdragon transformed and blasted off to the highest access point on the ceiling - the newly-placed hatch where the Hive's private aircraft would enter for the many meetings that formerly took place down below. The Tracker/Interceptor Fangry was already there in his fearsome alternate mode, attacking the new state-of-the-art locking mechanisms that were keeping him from freedom.

"Primus slaggit! Get this thing off me! SNAPDRAGON! Get your scaly aft back here! Don't you dare leave-"

For the first time since he and Apeface were constructed cold together, Snapdragon willingly turned off the communications link and did his best to dampen the Amica bond. It certainly wasn't easy by any means, but he knew that it was vital to his new plan.

He loosed a single plasma pulse at the closing mechanism with his underslung offensive cannon, blowing it to bits in an impressive fireball. The enormous hatch, its last lock destroyed, buckled inward under its own weight with a noise like thunder and fell to the aircraft landing area in a colossal mass of concrete and steel rivets, as its less-reinforced predecessor had done two decacycles before.

Snapdragon blasted into the sky, several of his brothers-in-arms following him out of their prison for the first time in what seemed like ages. The warmth of Nebulos's twin suns felt good on his wings as the Horrorcon darted between the futuristic spires and support beams of the city's skyscrapers. For the greater good, he would accomplish his mission or die trying.

"Now," he said to himself, perhaps to take his mind off of the distant, raw knot of betrayal and pain in a close spark that was not his, "I must find an Autobot."

* * *

Meanstreak was, by Cerebros's count, the thirty-eighth Autobot to be dispatched into the city of Nebulon since the _Fortress Maximus's_ crash. He had just received extensive surgery that he was still negotiating his way through and he hadn't seen combat for two and a half years, barring the attack on the Central Spaceport. Oh, and there hadn't been a Rebel sighting in the region since an isolated event a little over two weeks ago.

So imagine his surprise when a two-ton Horrorcon crash-landed in a nearby park at 550 miles per hour.

"Oh fiddlesticks!" were the first words that left his mouth as he peeled out of his well-chosen lookout spot. The next was as follows:

"This is Meanstreak to Command! I have heavy contact a quarter mile east of this position! Send reinforcements - I'm going in!"

Immediately, Cerebros answered him. "They're already on their way, but it'll be a while. The NSF servers just blew up with reports of a - let's see - "cowardly and rebellious terrorist attack" on Capitol grounds and the Enforcers are putting the district under lockdown. Do be careful, Meanstreak; Brainstorm isn't quite sure you're ready for combat yet."

It was true - the Combat Specialist was still a little sore around the fresh weld marks he'd received to become a Powermaster. And while he'd truthfully rather race than fight, he would never turn down an opportunity to do his duty.

He responded as such as he tore through the streets, lights and sirens flashing. He wove in between rent-a-cars and supply vehicles, which elicited much cursing in several different languages, all of which Meanstreak ignored. The intersection closest to the besieged park was already choked with rubbernecking motorists. Wrecks were beginning to pile up as tourists and civilians alike gaped at the huge, headless robot that was tearing up their nice little park.

The Horrorcon - who Meanstreak couldn't believe was headless - was atop a small hill, wielding two huge rough-looking glaives and periodically lashing out at the nearest innocent trees that just happened to be there, each one falling with a single stroke.

"PUNY ORGANIC FOOLS!" shouted the Rebel. "Is there truly no one, not a soul, that would dare stand against a proud member of the Decepticon race? Ask yourselves, Nebulan subjects! WHERE IS YOUR BELOVED PRESIDENT NOW?"

Just ahead was a flatbed trailer that had been t-boned by a Terran minivan. The bed had come undone on impact, forming a rudimentary ramp - one that Meanstreak utilized, transforming in midair and delivering a punch containing most of his body weight to the Horrorcon's chest area.

"I don't know about the President, punk, but you've just _majorly_ cheesed off an Autobot!" he declared, flashing his sigil as a holdover from his first days of life on Earth. "Now, are you going to come quietly, or am I gonna have to drag your offline chassis all the way back to base?"

The Horrorcon drew himself up to his full height, or what would be his full height if he still had a head, and brandished his swords, each as long as Meanstreak's whole body, as a hollow sound echoed from within his torso. Meanstreak realized that the sound was laughter, and suddenly understood how the Decepticons must have felt back during the war, facing down one of the infamous Dinobots.

"No . . . I shall choose my own path, Earthborn!"

The Horrorcon executed a massive upward slash with his left-hand weapon, followed by a sweeping right-hand arc that Meanstreak barely dodged. In anticipation of the next few strikes, he lowered his pede-mounted combat wheels and snapped into action.

Around the seventh near-death evasion, he began to regret not taking extensive Melee Weapons training. Sure, he was a Combat Specialist, but that was, in all truthfulness, a title mainly given to individuals who had merely studied all forms of weaponry without shining in any category. Really, at this point, he'd even settle for a tiny thermal spear or simply a stun baton. Anything but having to subdue this living nightmare with his bare servos.

And so the battle continued on, the Decepticon coming ever closer to ending Meanstreak and the Autobot dodging the strikes and landing punches or kicks whenever he could. It seemed that the Horrorcon was slowing, movements becoming lethargic and labored. His lights were steadily dimming and he was panting, Meanstreak thought, although it was difficult to make out what he was really feeling due to the Decepticon's lack of facial cues.

 _Hey, that's pretty good!_ Meanstreak triumphantly said to himself. _I'm tiring him out!_ This wouldn't be so hard after all. Once this Decepticon was trussed up in the _Fortress Maximus's_ interrogation room, they'd be able to milk him for the location of the other forty-one terrorists.

Then, however, the Horrorcon threw him off. He swung at Meanstreak's face and the Autobot dodged sharply, only to fall victim to a feint. Quick as a flash, the Decepticon reversed his attack, the twin swords slashing down to the left and knocking Meanstreak on his back. Pain flared up all of the diodes on his right side as the Horrorcon pinned his arm to the warm ground by ramming one of his massive swords straight through his entire arm.

Meanstreak cried out once, booting up his self-repair systems and applying pressure to the wound, cutting off most of his Energon flow. His fingertips quickly grayed a few shades, but the glowing fluid that maintained his bodily functions still sporadically spurted out around the sword, staining it a bright purple that almost immediately faded to a deep blue. There wasn't anything he could do at all to remove the sword or fight back.

Above him, the giant Decepticon began to transform into an equally large dragon.

* * *

Panels shifting and unfolding, Snapdragon's form changed its entire shape. His arms lengthened as his hand folded away to be replaced by much larger claws. New forearms came out of his legs and slammed into the ground directly next to the Autobot's vulnerable sides as his wings assembled themselves, knitting delicately together from three different points on his body. He leaned backward and landed on what used to be his arms, now strong back legs with wickedly curved talons and his wings tilted over his back and his tail extended to its full length.

The change he was most pleased about, however, was access to his alternate form's weapons. Already, the heat built in his chest as he took a deep exhale. Small lights running down his torso lit up as his airbags - now serving as bellows for a high-intensity flamethrower - neared peak capacity. The heat traveled rapidly up his throat while the Autobot squirmed in terror, unable to move in any way. Snapdragon wasn't going to _kill_ this Autobot oppressor. After all, he needed to have a good chase going so he could lead this vermin's comrades to the Capitol. Still, his reputation - and honor - must be preserved. A more accurate description for what he was about to do to the Autobot was "lightly toasted."

He opened his mouth, ready to douse Meanstreak in low-temperature flame - but realized too late that he no longer _had_ a mouth, not even in this mode. Or a head, for that matter.

Instead of spouting fire, his torso exploded in a choking cloud of accelerant-scented smoke. He jumped back in alarm, taking the black clouds with him.

"MINDWIPE! A thousand *koff* curses to you and your *kaff* overlord! May the *ack* Pit itself slowly roast both of you on a searing iron spit for all eternity!" he roared between racking coughs.

Then he turned his gaze of the other mech, still trapped under his greatsword. Very well. Consider this Autobot informed of his presence. Taking flight, Snapdragon wrenched the sword from the ground with his front leg, relishing the loud RUNCH of metal and the Autobot's pained cry as he did so, and took off for elsewhere.

* * *

Like most of the planet Nebulos, the Rivercrest Mall's main overpass was absolutely gorgeous. It connected the suburb of the same name to what was considered the city of Nebulon's primary cuisine quarter. Situated on the peak of the overpass, one could look out to the northeast and be amazed by the pristine blue, smooth-as-glass waters of the Korajan River, dotted by small white sailboats and other vessels but remaining unbroken. To the north were the ports, where food of all descriptions, imported from around the galaxy would be shipped in to feed the hungry throngs of tourists and locals alike. Several huge ships were docked there, in the process of being unloaded for distribution into the rest of the city.

About fifty feet below the overpass was the top of the mall itself - a vast, glittering, curved expanse of glass that stretched on and on, running underneath many other bridges for miles before swelling into an enormous dome in the west that made up the central skylight of the building. To the east, hundreds of feet down, was the riverfront boardwalk, where even the largest lifeforms seemed like ants from a vantage point as lofty as this.

At the far end of the bridge, the quaint restaurants of the Cuisine Quarter could just be made out, and beyond these, several miles of small neighborhoods, exits, enormous stores, and fuel stations before a huge, hilly landscape that rolled on until it was swallowed by the horizon.

Lastly, to the south, one could admire the elegantly-built skyscrapers and giant structures of Nebulon, the only obstacle marring the picture being the magnanimous spires and domes of the colossal Capitol building. Bigger and taller than any other landmark in the area, natural and man-made, it was difficult to fathom just how many millions - perhaps _billions_ \- of tons of rock had been excavated to construct it. You'd even be forgiven if you thought at least a mountain and a half had been broken down and moved, all for Oshana Zarak's personal seat of power. It seemed that all beauty the city once held had been sucked into the Capitol, forcing every other structure to appear sad and futile in the face of Government.

If one placed their back to the city, it was a beautiful view. The sheer _vastness_ of it all, along with the river and mall far below, reminded the Autobot Siren of his childhood home nestled in the ravines of Cybertron's Sonic Canyons. The giant, headless, mechanical dragon straddling the overpass, greatsword in hand and complete with a screaming crowd of panicked tourists, barely spoiled the view at all.

Siren ran a systems check. His CO₂ shotgun was locked and loaded, his Screamer pistols primed and ready. All he had to do was transform, but he wasn't quite ready to jump into action yet. He analyzed the scene, taking some cues from his mentor, Nightbeat, as he did so. The Decepticon wasn't posing an immediate threat that he could see - rather, it looked like he was waiting for something.

 _A scrap, probably,_ Graeme Quiggman, Siren's binary-bonded partner whispered over their connection. Graeme had been privy to Siren's every thought since he had arrived at the scene, the Autobot having opened the bond fully to maximize combat effectiveness. It was a strange situation - the closest thing he could compare it to would be two people in a fire-retardant transport vehicle, each watching and listening to the same live-action feed and radio as they raced to control the blaze in question. The Cybertronian and the Nebulan's thought processes were like the transport vehicle, an open space where every observation and every stray thought was shared between the two. When the bond was fully open, both of their minds were one and the same, yet different.

 _IF A SCRAP'S WHAT HE WANTS, THEN WE'LL GIVE IT TO HIM,_ Siren said under his breath, an action that had the strange effect of making it seem like someone was shouting at the top of his lungs from inside his closed-up cabin.

 _Shh! Do you want the whole planet to know where you are?_ his Headmaster partner chided. _I can hear you from all the way up here!_

Situated atop a nearby building, Graeme was surveying the scene from a distance - but still close enough to join the upcoming battle in a hurry. Siren could feel several of the young librarian's foremost idle thoughts: his doubts of Brainstorm's tech in the face of this mission, his irritation at Siren's permanent outside voice - magnified as an outlet for his combat jitters - and most of all, his fear at the prospect of fighting this Decepticon.

Siren sent a burst of _calm_ over the bond and opened up two more direct lines of communication - one to his fellow forensics student Hosehead and the other to Hosehead's partner, William Cambo. From here, he could see Cambo's suit not too far away in its transport form passing a close resemblance to a Nebulan fire chief's truck. Farther to the south, amid the breathtaking buildings of Nebulon, was Hosehead, hurrying to the scene while running full lights-and-sirens mode.

The sound of glass breaking, accompanied by a car alarm and Hosehead's quick "S-sorry!" came from that direction. Siren sighed. That would only mean more paperwork for him to fill out once this was over.

"This is Will! He-he's just standin' there! What do we do?" the other Nebulan exclaimed, poorly-disguised fear prevalent in every syllable that he spoke.

 _LEADER TIME,_ Siren thought. He wasn't as levelheaded, or indeed, as experienced as his mentor Nightbeat was. However, he was the highest-ranking officer in the immediate area, and if there was one thing that he could do, it was arrest a Decepticon.

"I KNOW THIS LOOKS BAD, MECHS," he transmitted on open comms, "BUT IF YOU REMEMBER YOUR TRAINING, IT WON'T BE AS HARD AS IT LOOKS TO BRING THIS 'CON DOWN. BACKUP'S ON ITS WAY. ALL WE NEED TO DO IS STALL FOR TIME."

Siren transformed, drawing his CO₂ shotgun at the same time, which was a gesture that only added to the crowd's hysteria. On the overpass, the Decepticon shifted with the ease of a seasoned warrior, hunkering down into a battle stance with greatsword held aloft. It roared defiantly, a loud, hollow sound, even as Hosehead and his partner transformed behind Siren.

"HOSEHEAD, GET THE ORGANICS TO SAFETY AND SET A PERIMETER!" the Warrior class said, not even needing to raise his voice. "I NEED YOU TO MAKE SURE THIS HORRORCON DOESN'T LEAVE THE BRIDGE!"

"Aye-aye, f-f-friend! SMALL CREATURES! Do not b-b-be alarmed, eh, I am h-here to help!" the Rescue unit said cheerily as he ran full-tilt towards the terrified crowd.

 _CAMBO, KEEP AN EYE ON HIM, PLEASE,_ Siren asked the Nebulan over a private commlink. He knew that Hosehead meant well, but he'd often get excited and do things such as rescuing people who'd already been saved, or completely forget about his onboard fire-retardant foam and attempt to punch a blaze into submission. In short, Hosehead worked better when someone was watching him.

 _What about you, Siren? You're not going to try to fight that thing alone, are you?_ Quiggman asked.

 _NOT AT ALL. YOU'RE GOING TO HELP ME,_ the Autobot replied as he charged into battle. He only got off one cryogenic shot that fizzled and steamed against the Decepticon's energy shields before the dragon swept his sword in a powerful slash. Siren ducked with inches to spare, realizing that if he hadn't undergone the Headmaster process, he would have been decapitated then and there.

The CO₂ shotgun fired again, striking the sparsely-protected shoulder joint of the Horrorcon.

 _Oh, Siren, I don't think I can do this, I really don't feel so well . . ._

"THAT'S NATURAL, ROOKIE! IT'S NOTHING MORE THAN BATTLEFIELD JITTERS! Siren shouted, both over the bond and from his vocoder. He rolled behind a parked car as the Decepticon's neck lit up with orange lights down its sides, followed immediately by a blistering ball of fire that swept over the roof of the vehicle. "I'M REALLY GOING TO NEED SOME HELP HERE PRONTO, THOUGH!"

Graeme didn't immediately reply, but Siren could still feel his thoughts, as the Nebulan hadn't quite mastered the art of keeping a binary bond private yet. _I can't do this, I'm just a librarian . . . why did I ever join the Resistance . . . but Siren needs my help . . ._

He raised his shotgun over the remains of the car and fired twice. Though he didn't see what he hit, the roar of anger that immediately followed gave him a good guess of what happened. Hopefully, he had managed to hit another weak point and the Horrorcon's shields were now running low on power.

Suddenly, the fire was cut off and Siren's cover was forcibly shoved away. He watched as the melted frame of the vehicle flew backward, impacted against the bridge's pedestrian walkway, and wedged itself firmly between two support cables. Thankfully, the bridge wasn't damaged, but his newfound lack of cover surely meant-

The greatsword slammed into the ground where Siren had been kneeling just a moment before, then the Horrorcon made a grab for him with one massive, scaly hand. With only a single impulse, his right-hand Screamer pistol shot out of its hidden compartment in the Autobot's wrist and fired once.

"GRAAGH!" screamed the Decepticon as he was thrown back by the deafening blast of the sonic weapon. Obviously, it had momentarily disintegrated his shields, which meant Siren had to move. Despite the explosive blast, which shattered all of the glass on the bridge and pushed back several abandoned vehicles, and the all-encompassing ringing that filled even his toughened audios, Siren wasted no time in coordinating his next move. He transformed both weapons back into his armor assembly as he dashed toward the north side of the bridge, leaping off and using the car wedged in the support cables as a launchpad. For a moment, he experienced a period of total weightlessness and was barely able to make out the people on the boardwalk far below looking up in wonder, having just noticed the conflict taking place. Then, he twisted around, took hold of another cable with both hands, and swung towards the injured Decepticon with all of his strength, landing in the middle of his broad back. The enormous Cybertronian toppled over on top of a delivery truck, and Siren immediately moved to apprehend him with a pair of stasis cuffs pulled from his subspace.

It was slow and ungainly going - and to make matters worse, he could feel the Decepticon start to shake off his disorientation underneath him. He risked a quick over-the-shoulder glance at the ongoing activities behind him. Quiggman was missing from his spot atop the building, which was an occurrence that he marked for review at a later time. Hosehead was - well, Siren wasn't actually sure what he was doing, but any perimeter-setting that involved the sounds of glass breaking, terrified screaming, and frantic apologies from the Search-and-Rescue mech to Cambo as the latter attempted to minimize damage wasn't anything Siren wanted a part in.

"I NEED SOME HELP OVER HERE!" he shouted desperately over as many frequencies as he could as his grip suddenly slipped from the Horrorcon's scaly carapace. He only had time to regret his inability to do his job before he was snatched up in one enormous hand-like appendage, lifted high into the air, above the bridge's support cables, above the Horrorcon's massive form, and slammed into the ground at speed enough to send damage reports flaring across his field of vision, each regarding his freshly-injured back.

The dragon lifted its wickedly large sword, now fully recovered from the Screamer blast. Siren offlined his visual feed, waiting for impact and bitterly disappointed that his last sight would be the empty void where the Decepticon's ugly head should have been. And then it came.

BRAKKABRAKKABRAKKABRAKKA! Rather than the explosive resonance of a sword hitting steel, the thunderous report of high-caliber gunfire filled Siren's audios. He unshuttered his optical array just in time to register a barrage of shells shower the Horrorcon's frame. Leaping to his feet, he whirled about and, to his joy, saw Quiggman charging to the rescue in his Primitive suit, a huge tri-barrelled X20 Scrapmaker protruding from his right forearm. Tiny compartments opened in the Nebulan's suit's shoulders, and Siren dodged to the side as a barrage of high-explosive rockets shot past him, each impacting the Decepticon with their own miniature mushroom clouds billowing outward.

"WELCOME TO THE PARTY," Siren said lightly, inwardly proud of the Nebulan for triumphing over his fear of combat. Quiggman's face was a mask of resigned determination, but the Autobot knew that he was still trembling in his boots. That, however, was to be expected of a new recruit, and the Autobot was willing to happily let it slide if it meant that he'd get some assistance in the fight.

"Well, you know, I can't let this creep wreck Rivercrest, can't I?" Graeme replied shakily, doing his best to put on a façade of bravado. Siren began to encourage him further, but at that moment the Decepticon lunged out of the cloud of smoke with a tremendous roar, slashing its sword across an entire traffic lane and sending no less than three wrecked cars flying into the air.

"Siren, this is High Tide," an incongruously calm voice crackled over the Autobot's communications system as he managed to block the Horrorcon's next strike with his shotgun. "I heard your request for assistance. Righton and I are almost in range for an artillery strike. Be there in a moment, just keep that Rebel occupied."

"ROGER," Siren replied, landing a shot that sprayed against the Decepticon's nearly-depleted overshields. He looked to the northeast and saw, amongst a huge cargo ship pulling into the dock and several tiny pleasure vessels, two medium-sized gunboats approaching the little bay in which the mall's boardwalk was built. One was moving at a rather urgent speed, while the other - Siren knew this one was High Tide himself - seemed content to just float along. He stifled a curse. High Tide, according to his military files, was never one to move a mile faster than "lackadaisical drifting." Some of the Aquatic Assault unit's former superiors blamed this on his fuel-inefficient design, but those who knew enough about the mech summed it up to his absolutely blasé attitude. It was in Rodimus Prime's best hopes that being bonded to Phillip Righton, a serious-minded sailor, would help High Tide learn the benefits of being punctual at least half of the time.

As it were, the Nebulan and the Autobot on the overpass had no choice but to hold the line. Thankfully, the hours of training that Quiggman had put in, mandated by Siren, had paid off. The two worked in efficient tandem, each strike or shot slowly eroding the Decepticon's not insignificant force fields to almost nothing.

 _Look out, Siren!_ Quiggman had transmitted at one time, allowing Siren to instantly react to an attack that he wouldn't have seen coming if he was fighting alone - or, indeed, even with a non-bonded ally. The bond allowed both of them to receive and react to what the other was saying faster than the speed of sound if need be. Another time, Siren and Graeme had coordinated two attacks with the effect of forcing the Horrorcon to focus on the Nebulan. At the last second, Siren had lunged forward as Graeme transformed into his head, the suit shrinking to the size of - well, a head. The Autobot, linked securely with his partner, had a moment of absolute clarity as he rolled underneath the too-high slash before disconnecting as fast as they had linked up, each delivering yet another attack to the Horrorcon's battered neck coupling.

Finally, Peter Righton's report issued over general comms. "We're in range, Siren! Clear the area!"

The Fire Control mech sent a quick _affirmative_ and turned on his heels, sweeping up Graeme's suit in one arm as he dashed toward the city. But he was too late, and the blast wave that came seconds later sent both of them flying off of the bridge and over the virtual chasm over the fragile glass roof of the Rivercrest Mall.

Siren, having grown up in a cavernous region of Cybertron, was no stranger to falls from high places - not that he enjoyed them, of course. He knew just what an adequately lengthy fall could do to his body, and which sections of his superstructure broke the easiest after a massive blunt force impact. Looking down at what lay beneath, he figured that the glass would slow his fall a bit, but send a shower of deadly shards down on whatever unlucky shoppers would be directly beneath him. And that wasn't even taking into account what he would have to do to stop himself from taking damage upon landing. In short, he wouldn't get injured himself, but depending on his luck, at least several million units' worth of damage and possibly some organic fatalities would be expended.

At the last minute, however, his fall abruptly stopped short. As he dangled back and forth, securely suspended by his back strut, he could hear the debris kicked up by the blast _ping_ ing off of the glass panes below.

He switched his visual feed to his shoulder-mounted cameras, and saw Graeme, straining under the effort of keeping a firm hand on Siren while simultaneously maintaining an iron grip on a bridge support directly overhead. Thankfully for the both of them, and the wellbeing of the Nebulan citizens in the mall, Graeme's primate-like suit was perfect for the task, and with a quick "Hold on!" followed by the Nebulan tossing Siren back onto the bridge with a mighty grunt of exertion, the danger was finished.

At least, the danger of _falling_ was finished. But the draconic Decepticon - impossibly - rose once more, smoke curling from every part on its damaged frame where High Tide and his partner's strikes had met their marks. It was now dented up quite severely, especially in the neck and torso area thanks to Siren and Quiggman's prolonged close-quarters combat with it, but looked like it was ready to go yet another round with the Autobots.

Siren winced as his internal nanobots, as one, snapped a damaged portion of his armor back into position. Though the Decepticon had come off the worse for wear in the fight, Quiggman and Siren had also acquired their own shares of damage in the form of dents, cuts, and stressed frames. Siren's back was roaring with a burning pain, and he wasn't sure how Quiggman was faring, but it couldn't have been ideal. The Horrorcon was a powerful opponent, and neither warrior wasn't sure they could handle much more abuse.

To his relief - and horror - the Rebel roared once more, lifted his greatsword again, and leapt off of the bridge, taking flight and beginning to head west. Just when it was almost out of range of Siren's shotgun, a large, enthusiastic red robot came charging towards the fifty-foot drop and jumped off of the south-side terrace, grabbing hold of the Rebel's long tail as he did so.

"ST-STOP RIGHT THERE, NEIGHBOR! YOU'RE UNDER A-ARREST FOR LOITERING WITH-WITH-withOUT A PERMIT!" Hosehead, brave Autobot that he was, shouted defiantly, dangling from the dragon's tail like a stubborn clod of mud as the Horrorcon shook him back and forth, flapping its enormous wings and hovering in place. Strangely enough, it actually looked like Hosehead was dragging the Decepticon down.

"What's he doing?!" Quiggman said incredulously as Hosehead's own partner paced the terrace, laser pistol drawn and unsure what to do.

Siren made to bury his head in his palm but realized too late that he didn't have a head anymore. Noticing this, he settled to just leave his hand floating in the air, entirely forgotten for the time being. "PRIMUS . . . I TOLD HIM TO MAKE SURE THE 'CON DIDN'T LEAVE THE BRIDGE . . . I JUST MEANT FOR HIM TO SET A PERIMETER TO CONTAIN THE BATTLE DAMAGE!"

He turned his vocoder to medium volume, which caused Quiggman to go diving for the ground once he opened his mouth. " **HOSEHEAD, LET GO OF THE DRAGON!"**

"I C-CAN'T! YOU TO-TOLD ME THAT HE COULDN'T LEAVE THE BRIDGE!" came the not-entirely-at-ease response.

Oh dear. What would come of this? "CANCEL THAT ORDER! YOU NEED TO LET GO **NOW!** " Siren shouted, inwardly cringing as he viewed what travesty came next.

Hosehead, to his credit, did let go of the Rebel's tail - and not a moment too soon either, as the dragon slashed downwards with his greatsword immediately after he released his grip - but the Search-and-Rescue mech didn't do so when the tail was over the terrace that he had jumped from not half a minute ago. Rather, he let go in the middle of the Horrorcon's return swing, when the appendage was almost pointed straight down. The result amounted to poor Hosehead flying across the chasm for a moment, then slamming into the north-side brick wall at a speed that made everyone wince. Like something out of an old Terran cartoon, the fire engine remained embedded into the elaborately designed wall for a brief moment, then slowly peeled off headfirst and plummeted the remaining thirty feet into the Rivercrest's glass roof, shattering straight through the panes and landing with a loud CRASH somewhere on the sixth floor.

Unbeknownst to him, Cambo accidentally swore over the group comm-system, and Siren couldn't blame him. An uncomfortable image of sharp, bloodied shards of broken glass and squashed tourists came to the forefront of his processor, and he himself felt an involuntary gasp escape from his vents. His Damage Control coding poked at his systems like a cleaning rag covered with hundreds of pins, but he had to ignore it. He hopped on general comms and gave a quick series of commands.

"HIGH TIDE, BRIGHTON, QUIGGMAN, PREPARE AN EVAC ROUTE. GET HOSEHEAD OUT OF THERE - NO MATTER WHAT THE . . . COST OF HIS FALL WAS. BE AS LOW-PROFILE AS YOU CAN, BUT DO IT QUICK AND GET BACK TO BASE." He forced his gaze back up just in time to see a long tail disappear around a corner of one of Nebulon City's abstract skyscrapers. "I'M GOING AFTER THE HORRORCON."

He transformed back into his first responder alt mode, turned on his lights and sirens, and peeled out, dodging in between the still-smoldering wrecks as he headed southbound.

* * *

Snapdragon was bruised, battered, and bleeding Energon and oil from a half dozen wounds. His shields were 100% depleted, the ringing playing back in his audio receptors still hadn't entirely left him, and several places where he had been shot by the gray Autobot's cryo-shotgun was burning with an encroaching, unnatural cold. Despite this, however, he was - or, rather, would have been - smiling auditory-receptor-to-auditory-receptor. He was a genius! Truly, he couldn't make it any clearer to the Autobots that he was trying to lead them somewhere, although one never knew with the hypocritical oppressors. He was getting the hang of learning to breathe fire again, too, despite the strange sensation of the new output nozzle firing from a point in what would have been his deep throat rather than where he was used to it.

Life was good. Now, it was only a matter of time before the Rebels were captured, escaped from the Autobot's prison ship, and returned to Cybertron in glory. He began to set a course for the Capitol, and heard an Iaconian siren sound in the near distance. The Autobots were coming, following him to his ultimate destination.

There would be songs sung about him for millennia after his passing.

* * *

Nightbeat peeled out of the side street that he had just been hurtling down at 90 mph, simultaneously running his hidden lights-and-sirens and keeping a half dozen communication webs going. Two of them went to Rodimus Prime and Cerebros, both of whom he was keeping informed on the situation. Three others were connected to the core squad of Powermasters, Getaway, Joyride, and Slapdash. Slapdash, was currently moving to intercept the Decepticon's projected path of destruction, and as such was quite far away from the crux of the conflict. The other two - ah, there they were - joined the hunt in the streets, their alternate forms specially designed for speed and agility rapidly catching up to Nightbeat himself. According to Cerebros, a few members of the Resistance who had managed to slip away from their respective day jobs were also involved, and Nightbeat could see one or two even from where he was now. However, he couldn't maintain any more comm-webs without straining himself more than necessary, and thus was unable to speak over integrated communications with the Nebulan allies.

The last link, however, connected him to the combined comms address of Hosehead and Siren, the former of which he couldn't really speak to at the moment. He was rather outraged, and his rules to live by - Nightbeat's Holy Trinity of Tips to Remember No Matter What - had all been broken. "When in the first engagement with anything, especially an enemy, always - _always -_ keep collateral damage at the very barest minimum." "If you're obviously outnumbered, retreat and come back later with a precinct of heavily armed friends." "Above all else, use your processor, even if it means tweaking or outright ignoring orders."

So, of course, the scatterbrained Hosehead had forgotten _all three_ guidelines, caused severe property damage outside the battle's perimeter, possibly injured or even killed innocents in his fall, and charged full-tilt into the breach without a second thought of his or anyone else's safety.

It was funny because, under other circumstances, it's possible that the seasoned GIPD detective would have commended his protégé for his bravery and selflessness, but right then there was far too much on his plate for that business.

"I'M ON MY WAY, SIR!" Siren shouted, as if it wasn't painfully obvious by the Fire Controller's own siren about 8 mechanometers behind Nightbeat, most likely the loudest out of all the other wailing mechanisms slowly adding to the quick-paced chase through the streets of Nebulon.

The Horrorcon - Snapdragon, as Nightbeat remembered - spat an arc of white-hot fire that turned a row of parked vehicles on Nightbeat's left into sparking slag. Thankfully, it seemed that no one was injured, although the lines of cars on both sides of the two-lane street were swerving and making every effort to avoid being anywhere near the Horrorcon's flapping wings or trailing sword, several getting into bad crashes in the process.

The detective activated the cameras behind his rearview mirrors and saw a spurt of fire-retardant foam leave Siren's side-mounted hose and cover the flaming cars. Good, at least _someone_ was concerned about avoiding property damage.

A sudden loud noise alerted him, and Nightbeat snapped his attention back to the chase ahead, barely avoiding running head-first into a smashed semi-truck with a long sword-slash running down its length. He muttered a curse, steadied his pounding pulse by a tiny amount, and accelerated even faster towards the Horrorcon.

Nightbeat looked ahead, scanning the oncoming intersection for a yellow F1 racer (which undoubtedly turned some heads in Nebulon City that day), and, much to his pleasure, saw the young Powermaster pull out, transforming to robot mode as he did so.

"Don't worry guys, I'll take him out!" Slapdash said excitedly. There was a pause, during which Snapdragon hit a nearby fuel tanker with his sword - a weak slash, but enough to breach the tank - and flew upwards, twisting around in midair and blowing a jet of flame at the damaged vehicle. Its driver bailed out at the last second, diving into a nearby storefront before an enormous explosion split the relative calm of the Nebulan afternoon.

"Slapdash, are you planning on 'taking him out' anytime SOON?" Nightbeat shouted. "Because I'm afraid he won't wait for you to comfortably draw a bead!"

The pause continued, nothing but sheer embarrassment flowing from Slapdash's signal. "Um . . . yeah, don't be mad, sirs, please, but . . . I kind of . . . forgottobringmygunwhenIwentouttopatrol. I'm sorry."

"YOU **WHAT?!"** Nightbeat and Getaway screamed in unison, though neither officer knew it at the time.

"I'm sorry! I was thinking about something else, and it just . . . slipped my mind! What do I do?" the young Interceptor asked frantically.

"Just sit back and let us take care of it, then!" the Detective snapped, swerving around a hovercar and activating his external alt-mode weaponry. A revolving blaster slid out of his passenger-side window, whirring as it extended and set sights on the Horrorcon.

Nightbeat, though he would never be caught dead saying it himself, was a crack shot with all of his ranged weapons, which his next action proved beyond any shadow of a doubt. In a matter of seconds, he chose his target - a tiny chink in the Decepticon's armor between his spinal column and left flank - and fired a single projectile, which hit its mark perfectly.

Snapdragon howled in pain, a voluminous spray of Energon dousing the road, vehicles, and Autobots below, and fell to the ground, rolling over no less than five vehicles. Screams erupted from the crash site even as the Decepticon, amazingly, staggered to his feet once more, loosing a final defiant roar and limping off down a nearby street.

Nightbeat transformed, regretting his decision to get up that morning and keeping his trusty revolver drawn. Getaway, Joyride, Siren, Slapdash, and a Resistor by the name of Michael Fulgure followed suit and fell in behind him, each one tense and, judging by the looks on their collective faceplates, horrified at the events unfolding before their collective optics.

"Siren, Fulgure, Slapdash, see if you can rescue the injured," he sighed, doing his best to ignore the shouts and cries of pain and fear that echoed off of the walls of the nearby skyscrapers. "Joyride, Getaway. Time to capture that 'Con and be done with this mess."

The three of them edged around the wrecked cars and burnt buildings, following the faintly-glowing trail that Snapdragon had left behind. From here, the northeast side of the colossal Capitol building dominated everything in the area, its sheer mass almost, but not enough to evade Nightbeat's notice, drawing attention away from the towering plume of smoke that was pouring from its back lawn and dispersing into the perfect Nebulan sky.

They jumped down from a wide overpass and landed, about fifty feet down, in a dark, vacant lot littered with puddles of water slowly mixing with the Energon from Snapdragon's wound, discarded bottles and cans, and several random chunks of granite and broken glass. A single electric light buzzed over a drainage hatch built into the brick wall of the nearby building, giving the whole scene a sad, empty feeling, in sharp contrast to the grandiose Capitol that was literally just across the street, itself filled with idling cars and cursing motorists.

Nightbeat snapped into action, raising his revolver and moving swiftly into the breach. From the moment he stepped out of the lot, he saw Snapdragon, perched atop an arch set into the Capitol's garden wall not far away - waiting for something, it seemed.

The three Autobots waded into the street, stepping completely over vehicles when it was convenient and weaving around them when it was less so. Eventually, they came within earshot of Snapdragon, and everything abruptly clicked inside Nightbeat's head.

Snapdragon's long neck creaked as he looked up, acknowledged the small party, and shifted his weight slowly and haltingly atop the arch. His tail hung down on the other side, nearly scraping the ground and brushing against the thick, green foliage that formed a tunnel leading into the Garden. Still-glowing Energon dripped down from his dented frame, already forming a deep puddle just in front of the entrance, where his greatsword rested, leaning against the garden wall. In all, his posture seemed tired, injured just short of severely, yet not defeated despite insurmountable odds.

He released a deep, broken vent as his empty neck socket regarded his three adversaries with something unmistakable for weariness. "So you fools finally understand, then." A long, ragged chuckle resonated within him before he continued. "It certainly took you an inordinate amount of time."

Nightbeat stepped forward, keeping his revolver trained on the Decepticon. "The speculation is true, isn't it?" he asked, mostly to himself as he realized the full scope of the situation. "Here I was, thinking that the new recruits were just being paranoid, but their assumptions had a base in reality . . ."

The Horrorcon did not respond but inclined his "head" a few millimeters.

"I didn't think fleshlings could fall that low," Getaway said airily, a sharp edge not-quite-hidden under his breath.

"You don't know the half of it, copper," Snapdragon replied, suddenly fixing his eyeless gaze on the Powermaster leader. The Warrior snapped his double-barreled shotgun up, barking a severe warning about what he'd do to the Decepticon if he came any closer, but Snapdragon heedlessly continued in a cold, shaking voice brimming with fury.

"The things that we've been subjected to, the injustices we've been forced to put up with, the sheer _torture_ that our lives have become since we crashed on this Primus-forsaken rock, they are all facilitated by the most corrupt, egotistical, rotten pustule of an organic that any of us have had the displeasure to exist alongside. We are made to undertake dehumanizing experiments like Pit-spawned glitch-mice and then thanked for our service by being involuntarily conscripted into _his_ military force, becoming mere subordinates to an insignificant worm that wants to play god. You believe yourself knowledgeable of the fathomless depths of depravity organics are capable of reaching? You have _no idea._ "

Nightbeat lowered his revolver a fraction of a millimeter. "Why don't you just rise up against this despot or try to escape, then? Your little band of psychopaths seemed perfectly capable of doing that back on home to a High Council of fully-grown Cybertronians, much less a single organic. Also, why didn't you tell us about your conditions before attacking us? Do you honestly think that we wouldn't have treated you with respect and decency?

The Horrorcon rose up off of his perch, armor bristling two feet off of his massive frame and making him even larger than he already was. "Do you honestly think we haven't already tried to overthrow and escape the Organic?! You vile Autobots really are as unintelligent as you look. What did you think that little "incident", not two decacycles ago was, a mere flight about the city? He and his array of cohorts - including who I once thought were my own brothers-in-arms! - rounded us true Decepticons up as soon as we had broken free of his prison and towed us back to the Capitol, locking us away in confinement even more evident than what we were stowed in before, all to await our operations. That is how I was twisted and contorted until what you see in front of you was all that was left." He offered the Autobots a chance to observe his headless, broken form before continuing with a gentle scoff-like sound. "As for respect and decency - entertaining jest you pose. I have known nothing of the sort ever since I was constructed cold underneath the monoliths of Tagon Heights, no thanks to you and your 'Great' War, and it is quite likely that I will experience anything like it nevermore."

Was it Nightbeat's imagination, or did the Decepticon's voice crack minutely with those last words?

"That still doesn't explain why you wouldn't just tell us about what you have to go through. I promise that if you come with us right now without causing a _scene,_ we'll treat you fairly and, with your assistance, devise a battle plan to seize the Capitol and . . . rescue your compatriots . . . after placing your captor securely behind bars, of course." Nightbeat bargained. He trusted that he didn't need to explain to the Decepticon what would come afterward - a journey back to Cybertron, a fair trial before the newly rebuilt High Council, and subsequent amnesty, exile, probation, or imprisonment, depending on the Rebel in question's past transgressions.

 _You're kidding me, right mate? There's no way you can believe this scrap. He's a_ Decepticon, _remember? Lying an' killin's the only thing they can do, man,_ Getaway transmitted to the Detective. Though he couldn't see her, Nightbeat could almost feel Joyride chomping at the bit as well, the reckless Velocitronian's appetite for violence coming close to taking her over. Before the latter mech could respond, however, Snapdragon rose completely from the Garden's arch.

"Ahh . . . a good offer, Autobot, I'll give you that. Sadly, it would be a defilement to my heritage, my binding oath as a Decepticon Rebel, and whatever kindness still kindles in the sparks of my allies if I simply keeled over and came complacently with the likes of you, the sworn enemies of the very movement at the heart of our cause." Sparks lit within his frame and a loud groaning noise from his joints - enough to make Nightbeat wince - sounded as Snapdragon bent over and pried the sword from the ground once more. "Thusly, I'm - nng - afraid that I'll have to decline. I shall only come with you if and when my body is - ow - limp and motionless, bleeding my very lifeblood from a thousand cuts and perforated throughout with bullet holes and stab-wounds . . . _En garde,_ Autobot oppressors."

The Rebel trained the tip of his sword on the three, growling a final challenge.

"YES! Finally!" Joyride pushed the other two away, planting herself solidly between Snapdragon and her allies while activating her twin photon blasters. Getaway cocked his double-barreled shotgun in anticipation and Nightbeat tensed up, preparing to dodge in any direction at the first sign of the Decepticon's opening attack. He heard a distant, droning noise in the front of his processor as his adrenaline subsystems began to work themselves. Before any of them could get a shot in, however, Snapdragon was suddenly grabbed from behind by a strangely-shaped mech clad in black, blue, and white that itself was easily half as large as the Horrorcon.

" _ **NOOO!**_ **UNHAND ME, HYBRID SCUM!** " he howled, beating his wings and swinging his sword wildly in a futile attempt to get off the ground, but the newcomer had much too firm a grip on his midsection - and, disturbingly, seemed even stronger than him, eventually succeeding in what he wished to accomplish. With a pained shriek, the Horrorcon and the other mech toppled into the thick undergrowth of the Capitol's Garden.

"What the slag was that?" Getaway exclaimed, starting forward to peek into the vast back lawn. Immediately before he entered, Nightbeat realized that the droning noise was steadily getting louder, and assigned it to something quite familiar in his line of work.

"GET BACK!" he boomed, channeling his inner Siren, but it was too late. A sleek red Terran vehicle came streaking out of the Garden entrance and plunged into Getaway's legs, causing the Powermaster to come crashing to the ground with a yelp of pain. Strangely enough, Nightbeat recognized the vehicle from an old Earth datatrack he had watched during Precinct Movie Night - that is, after his students had dragged him to the event despite his protests.

While this was happening, a gray robot with an aerial alt-mode came out of nowhere with a gun almost as big as the 'bot himself was. A volley of armor-piercing rounds showered down upon Joyride and Nightbeat, slicing straight through their overshields and impacting against their physical armor. Their shields were taking the majority of the impact, but it was only a matter of time before they were dispelled entirely.

Needless to say, the three 'bots were in a precarious position. Their opponent had the high ground and there was little to no cover in the area without endangering innocents.

"Retreat!" the Detective shouted, unable to see through the cloud of smoke and high-caliber rounds that was beginning to surround him. He fell back, stumbling over one or two vehicles as he navigated through the nearby street filled with honking motorists. Disturbingly, he noticed that the mech in the air wasn't even trying to aim, instead cackling with the rush of combat as his endless supply of rounds hit everything from the pavement to the Autobots to the vehicles penned up in the gridlock.

Finally, he made it underneath the nearby overpass, which passed over a side street perpendicular to the Capitol, and the heat was off. Deprived of one of his targets, the mech, who Nightbeat finally recognized as one of the jet-mode Rebels who attacked the _FortMax_ in Iacon, shifted his focus to Joyride, who wasn't making any effort to avoid the gunfire or even get under cover. Instead, the Warrior class was simply standing in one place, laughing almost as crazily as the Decepticon as she returned fire. Her dwindling armor was merely a bright spotlight of disintegrating rounds and dissipating energy fields.

"Hey! Quit - ah! - Quit it!" the Rebel yelled as he dodged Joyride's continuous stream of weapons fire.

"Take them! TAKE YOUR PUNISHMENT, REBEL!" she returned with manic delight. Over the Garden wall behind her, several dark shapes moved into position and Nightbeat perceived the distinct sound of laser weaponry charging to full blast in a matter of moments.

"Joyride! Fall back NOW! You're outnumbered!" he ordered yet again, and only when the Velocitronian Warrior saw the Decepticons coming out of the underbrush did she retreat, with a curse, of course, as was customary for her.

Getaway vaulted over a delivery truck in absolute terror as this was happening, rolling over it like a mech possessed. Directly behind him, the vehicle was abruptly thrown aside by the red car, the latter using itself as a battering ram and incurring tremendous front-end damage as it did so. But the Terran hot rod was not taken out of commission in the least. Instead, it backed up, deliberately so, and picked up the chase right where it had left off, bashing three more cars aside as it followed the Powermaster leader like a bloodhound.

"No, no, no! Not again!" he begged as he transformed, riding the sidewalk for several hundred feet before merging onto an expressway. Huge quantities of automatic fire erupted over their heads, one round striking the Detective in his unprotected shoulder.

Joyride and Nightbeat followed close behind Getaway, and it wasn't until the Capitol was squarely in their rearview mirrors before they all noticed that, in spite of all logic saying otherwise, they weren't being followed - at least not in any way that they could see.

* * *

He anxiously tapped his ring-laden fingers on the arm of his throne, the only expression of his distaste that his broken body allowed him to indulge in. What was it with these Cybertronians? He leaves for a ceremony on the other side of the planet; when he comes back his beloved city is under siege by one of his more . . . disobedient toys? Some days, Oshana Zarak swore, it seemed as if the whole universe was set against him.

To their credit, the Media had done an excellent job at providing an explanation for the events that had taken place just this afternoon, no doubt thanks to Charles Sol, the President's very own executive of Media affairs. Though he was now waiting to undergo the Hybrid and binary-bonding processes, he had still managed to phone in the old standby for anything that went wrong on Nebulos - cowardly terrorist attacks determined to make an impact on the Nebulan way of life. According to the news that Zarak was now watching on several different channels, a misguided and corrupted Rebellion had managed to create defective robots and sent them all on a rampage throughout the glorious capital city, and it was the citizens' collective responsibilities to report anything out of the ordinary to the friendly neighborhood Peace Officers. Even the folks over at the Department of Information were working studiously on kneading the events of this morning into tonight's episode of _Laugh Like Crazy!_ , which was a show that Zarak adored. So easy to pass off kidnappings and other unfortunate events as just pranks on the government-mandated comedy show. Aside from the "robots" part of the news broadcast, it was a story that Zarak had seen played out thousands of times by now, and that was just the way he liked it.

The enormous doors on the other side of his secondary Throne Room opened, admitting one Marcus Bricant, an enterprising weapons manufacturer who had, upon completion of the Hybrid process, been given the codename of Diesel.

"They're all ready for the hearing, my lord," he said in his smooth, compelling voice. Zarak had the terminals folded around him shut off and tucked away with the mere press of a button on the armrest of his throne and snuck a peek at the bestial mech to his left. Krunk - that is to say, the Hybrid that was once Zarak's bodyguard, Brutus Dublyn-Head, now rendered entirely subservient to him via a subsystem that had been installed in the first few trials of the experiment - was online, alert, and patiently awaiting his next orders. His yellow eyes constantly darted around the room. Zarak liked to believe that this was because the Hybrid was actively looking for anything that may threaten the President's safety even here in the sanctuary beneath the Capitol. True loyalty was difficult to come by, and it was nice to appreciate it when he could.

Zarak beckoned forward as best as he could, which amounted to nothing more than a weak motion of his right-hand middle and index fingers. For Zetca's sake, he could wait no longer for his own process to be undertaken, but appearances needed to be kept for his troops. Besides, there was the absolutely necessary factor of adequate surveillance during his operation to be taken into account.

"Bring them in, then," the President bade. His words echoed throughout the vast room, large enough for the largest of Decepticons and Hybrids to stand inside, even as Marcus stepped (rather clumsily, as he was still getting used to his new body) aside to allow the defendants in.

First came the Decepticon Slugslinger and his partners Caliburst, the Cybertronian and the eight-in-one Hybrid having identical looks of apprehension on their collective faces. The President frowned. He still wasn't keen on the idea of Berst's consciousness being spread over a whole eight new bodies, but if it gave him more manpower for his grand vision of restoring Nebulos to its former glory, then so be it, even if it meant there were now eight terrible actors constantly running around the Basement rather than one. Flanked by one of the most loyal Hybrids in the Hive, Monzo, and the enormous Enforcer Tiptop, the nine mechs were prodded before Zarak's throne even as the main target of his ire was brought in.

"Release me, fools! Can you truly not see that I am not your enemy?" the Horrorcon Snapdragon growled halfheartedly. Bound securely in massive chains made of Nebulan steel and dragged along by five other mechs, it was made abundantly clear that the wannabe revolutionary was going nowhere but into the heart of Zarak's temple to face whatever punishment the god-Emperor saw fit to deal out.

He was thrown bodily before the throne by his captors, causing him to issue a brief exclamation of pain before, surprisingly, he choked it out of existence. A trace feeling of amusement came over Zarak. The Decepticon was obviously heavily damaged by those irritating Autobots, and yet he wanted to rebel against the President even now, depriving the latter of the mere joy of listening to his screams? How adorable! Zarak had to appreciate the Cybertronian's spunk, but resumed the image of judge, jury, and, if need be, executioner.

"Well," he began, "This is an . . . interesting meeting, to be sure."

"SIR!" one of Berst's bodies began to pontificate in a thick, obviously fake accent that in no way was his real voice. "We have apprehended and neutralized the rebellious prisoner, as you have decreed. Allow us to demonstrate for you, if you will, the great battle in which we defeated our foe!"

"No. That'll do quite nicely, Caliburst." The Hybrid winced, each of his bodies folding into themselves and cowering appropriately before the President. "I must, however, commend you on your success. If this . . . Horrorcon were to remain free in the city, the PR cleanup would be quite the pain in my backside. Good work, Mr. Berst. Decepticon," he said, causing Slugslinger to lift his head, "in appreciation of your stellar teamwork with your partner, you will be rewarded very nicely. You now have Level Two access to everything the Capitol has to offer and a rank of your very own. Congratulations!"

Slugslinger grimaced. He liked Snapdragon. The Horrorcon was a great warrior and, if he had the courage to step up and escape the Basement for the greater good of his fellow Rebels, he couldn't have been that bad a guy. But he was afraid to cross Zarak, and upon second thought, a fresh rank and the opportunity to get the rest of the Hive off of his back sounded great.

"Thank you much . . . my lord?" he replied. It sounded more like a question than a true act of gratitude, but it caused a tiny self-satisfied smirk to dart across Zarak's face.

"WHAT?! You too have wholeheartedly betrayed the Decepticon cause, tiny gray coward? I'll kill you where you stand, infidel, and I don't even need to be loosed of these bonds!" Snapdragon shouted, surging to his feet and rushing awkwardly towards Slugslinger and the Calibursts. Monzo and Tiptop came to their rescue, first holding the enraged Horrorcon back and then throwing him on the floor as the nine smaller mechs were ushered out of the Throne Room with honors. Once the great doors slammed shut on the other end of the hall, Monzo finished the humiliation by elbow-dropping his entire not-insignificant mass on the Decepticon's exposed midsection.

Snapdragon rolled over, needing to vomit but lacking the hardware to do so, even as Monzo rose to his feet and Zarak began to speak. "Now this, my friend . . . this hurts me terribly. Put yourself in my shoes, Cybertronian. Imagine, after a catastrophic - and heavily unfortunate - ship crash, you rescue the imperiled survivors from the burning remains of their vessel, offer them lodging while they get back on their feet, and even go back to the site of the ruins when one of them left behind something valuable! All you ask for in return for your generosity is a little pick-me-up, a little something to make you stronger that these people can easily provide. An _upgrade,_ if you will. And beyond that, all you want is to just reassert your dominance over a little planetary republic and all associated colonies, of course, but that's unimportant right now. All that matters is that you opened your home to these survivors and gave them everything they need to make you successful in life, but some of them _betray_ you. Some of them go out around the neighborhood, wrecking everything they see, including - ahem - a BRIDGE, a FREEWAY, a **GRAND MALL** , and a **PERFECTLY FINE PUBLIC PARK** ; blocking up vital lines of transportation on your planet for a good portion of the day, and generally being UNCOOPERATIVE, REBELLIOUS, UNGRATEFUL PETULANT CHILDREN! _**AND AFTER ALL YOU'VE DONE FOR THEM, TOO!**_ " He closed his eyes as the raised platform his throne sat on lowered closer to the ground, making him just a little taller than Snapdragon. When he continued, his voice was much more reserved than his previous artery-pounding, top-of-his-lungs screeching. How do you think that makes me feel, Cybertronian?!"

Snapdragon coughed twice, feeling as if he was just about to retch but couldn't bring himself to. Despite this, he still managed a broken laugh. "If I were in your place, organic, I would surely feel nothing but all-consuming disgust for the situation at hand."

Now it was Zarak's turn to bark a stressed laugh. "Really? You would?" He looked up and locked eyes with Diesel, who was still standing at attention next to the doors. "At least we agree on one thing, then!"

He glanced back down at Snapdragon as the Decepticon mumbled something, then spoke clearly enough that even the Hybrid standing across the room could hear. "Yes . . . If I were in your place - that is, a corrupt, morally challenged child with an opinion of myself higher than the vaulted heights of K'th Kinsere - I would be disgusted by the very essence of my wretched existence . . . for honor, I'd do the entirety of this vast, wondrous universe a favor and ram a rusty sword through my midsection to end the blight my swollen ego has wrought upon it."

To this, Zarak seemed at a loss for words. His mouth opened and closed without a sound coming out, and his head tilted back, leaving the Nebulan staring at the ceiling as if in prayer. All was quiet for a moment until finally, he mouthed the single phrase _I see._

Suddenly, Snapdragon was seized by an invisible force unlike any he'd ever felt before. It crushed his limbs into his body, not enough to cause irreversible damage, but certainly enough to cause him severe pain and send tolerance warnings blaring over his field of vision. He shot towards the ceiling of the temple, impacting against the elegantly tiled surface with a painful crash. As quickly as that had happened, he was thrown downward again until he hit the floor, then to his left, right, left, down again, up, twice against the floor, and at the left wall. He hit a stone pillar, broke something inside of his frame, and fell to the ground, where he lay groaning and unable to verbalize anything but strained gurgles in a pool of his own Energon, which was now flowing freely from his myriad wounds. Dust rained down from above, along with some tiles broken off from the elaborate designs laid into the ceiling. The platform on which Zarak's throne sat lowered all the way to the ground and Snapdragon could barely hear the whine of his electric wheelchair - accompanied by heavy, irregular stomps - as the President and his bodyguard approached the crushed, cut, and bleeding Horrorcon. Blind fury danced in the Nebulan's eyes, but when he spoke, it was in his normal, calm voice - except with hard steel concealed underneath his quiet inflection.

"You had your chance, son. I was willing to forgive you after your first bid for freedom, but now you've crossed the line. Krunk," he commanded, causing the hulking purple beast that was his bodyguard to stand up as straight as his warped posture would allow, "prepare yourself for your finalization."

Amazingly, the battered Horrorcon, against all odds, struggled to his knees, breathing heavily with every movement. _Drip, drip,_ went wayward drops of oil falling into the still-growing puddle of Energon at Zarak's feet. At this point, one could hear the tortured grinding of the gears and belts in Snapdragon's various limb couplings as they spun, trying to connect with other cogs that simply were not there anymore.

Snapdragon tilted his torso forward so his glitching optical array could maintain a good view of the victorious President. He connected his respiratory system to an internal duct, coughed up the most repulsive mix of used crude fuel, contaminants, and his own Energon that he could and spat it at Zarak from the port where his neck should have been. Much to his disappointment, the ball of waste was intercepted by the bestial bodyguard, who had moved faster than Snapdragon expected it to, and instead of hitting the President it only sizzled pitifully against the rough carapace of Krunk's left leg.

Zarak snickered briefly, a sound that soon transformed into a satisfied laugh as he pressed a single button on the small remote that was resting on his wheelchair's armrest.

Snapdragon, all pretense of haughtiness forgotten, fell into the puddle of Energon and screamed at the top of his lungs as bit by bit, his mind erupted into agony in its clearest, most unrefined state.

He could feel his mind slipping, everything that made him _him_ crumbling into a drain that had opened up inside his processor.

He could feel all instincts of survival, individualism, and joy being atomized, his entire being devoured by a vast, yet empty, presence that bashed and cut its way into his spark, roaring voraciously as it consumed him. Screaming into the void that his mind was rapidly becoming, even his savage defiance dying as the pain continued.

He could feel his ideals and his beliefs in a higher power fading into nothingness, replaced by . . . something he no longer had the creativity to adequately describe.

He could feel - to his utter horror - even his Amica Endura bond with Apeface, all of the good memories they had shared together being ravaged, pulling itself apart until he couldn't even remember his best friend's name

he could feel . . . nothing

* * *

They awoke and rose to their feet as soon as they regained the capacity to do so.

Threats to god-Emperor Lord Zarak were minimal. Environment was in slight disrepair. Ceiling cracked, puddle of possibly dangerous contaminants on the floor. Unacceptable. Maintenance must see to this immediately. Creature at other side of room, marked as friendly, disregard. Unit One - designation Krunk, personal co-bodyguard of Lord Zarak at attention to left of god-Emperor Lord Zarak. All is as should be.

They buzzed, as did god-Emperor Lord Zarak's command device.

" _Finalization complete. Units one and two successfully synced,"_ it said. Unit One (commander) heard this, climbed up their form, and connected with them. Process successful.

"Awaiting orders, god-Emperor Zarak," they growled, attempting to salute. Gesture unsuccessful. Cause: heavy damage to right arm, frame superstructure, rotator belt 1A, left and right humanoid-form legs, spinal column assembly in mid-substructure, tail joint F, main torso assembly, fuel tank, right airbag. Fifty-eight hull breaches found, nineteen critical. Fuel pump approaching maximum tolerance levels, power dangerously low and still dropping. Disregard damage report IF President Zarak requires further assistance.

god-Emperor smiled benevolently. "That's nice to hear coming from you, Cybertronian. Here are your orders: you need to get down to the med-bay. Bat-boy's still busy down there, but I think we can convince him to heal you up a little bit. We have to have you in working condition before we can move on, yes?"

Their eyes glowed briefly with intense adoration and smoldering love for the Great President. "Affirmative."

"Well, then get yourself moving! You can leave Krunk here with me if it makes you feel better. By the way, a few other Decepticons escaped in that little kerfuffle earlier today, so once you're on your feet again, I need you to oversee the search for our wayward allies, yes? Dismissed."

They bowed. Disregarding the groans coming from their body, they ejected Unit One. Unit One converted to humanoid form and resumed his rightful place at god-Emperor's side. The small boost of power left them; enough left to fulfill orders. "Thank you . . . my lord," they said gratefully, before turning to leave. They paused when they had come across the ally, scanned him. Worthy to be in the same room as the President. Disregard.

They left the room. It was imperative to ensure that no harm could come to the god-Emperor. The well-being of his master was a cause far greater than anything else that could be found in the universe - even the reestablishment of the Zarak Institute's power over it.

* * *

The command tower was in, to put it simply, complete chaos.

All of the highest-ranking Autobots on the _Fortress_ were shouting over each other, lights blared red as Cerebros continued to receive updates from the miniscule amount of scouts still in the field, and some latecomers still came straggling in through the heavy-duty cargo elevator that was currently the only point of entry into the newly-formed tower command center.

Rodimus Prime sat in the large chair at the front of the room, listening to the heated conversation that rang in his audios. Insults flew about just as freely as useful information, and quite frankly, he was getting sick of it. Behind him, the floor-to-ceiling data screens were playing back audio clips and footage from several cameras that the most responsible of the scouts had strapped on before heading out, and the flashing lights and colors reflecting off of everyone in the room only added to the palpable confusion and irritation that hung heavily in the air. Something had to be done about this.

He stood up to his full height and put his fist in the air. "QUIET DOWN!" The shouts faded to nothingness as tens of sets of optics and eyes were placed on him. "Honestly, mechs! If we're this divided amongst ourselves, how are we going to take this new information and do something about it? You're all acting like sparklings! Come on, we've made it this far. We set up a concrete base, organized largely successful missions to track down the Rebels, and now we have what we're looking for in our reach! All we have to do is cooperate with each other until they're safely behind bars downstairs, all right? Then we can all go home. Cripes." The Autobot Leader paused. "Now, let's get on with analyzing what happened in the city. Nightbeat, you've got the floor."

The Detective rose from his seat in the front row and turned to address the other officers. "Yes. I have compiled key footage captured by the Scouts in the skirmish earlier today, and what I've found holds rather disturbing sentiments not only for the Decepticons' next move - but also for the future of Nebulos itself." He pressed a button on his wrist-mounted computer and an image of the Horrorcon, in humanoid form with a single sword raised at the camera filled the screen at the front of the room.

"This image was taken from the body camera on Meanstreak's person, who's currently in the infirmary getting his arm tended to. When he arrived at the scene, he said that the Decepticon in question seemed to be, strangely, stalling for time as much as he could, spouting - here's the weird part - anti-government propaganda without so much as attempting to attack anything, even the throngs of organics who'd massed in the square. As you know, this was the first confirmed sighting of a Decepticon since the crash investigation event two decacycles ago, which Scoop could undoubtedly tell you the details of should you have any further questions about the incident," he said, nodding in the vicar's direction towards the back of the room. "I'm not sure what the rest of you think, but this, along with what I found later in the footage, disturbs me."

"I'll tell you what disturbs me, fuzzbox!" came an agitated voice from the middle of the room. "That 'Con doesn't have a head, yet is still walking about like he's a perfectly normal mech! I'll bet you a thousand shanix that they've taken my Headmaster idea! There must be spies still active, infecting Cybertron like some sort of nasty wasting disease! They've stolen MY intellectual property and they need to pay! Preferably in pain and suffering!"

Nightbeat groaned. "Brainstorm, as likely as that would seem at this stage, we have to focus on the matter at hand. Please be quiet and watch, at least until we're done here."

He tapped the button on his wrist twice, first causing a muted video of the chase through Nebulon to replace the image from Meanstreak's camera and secondly bringing up a paused video of the Horrorcon, beaten and bloodied, resting atop the Garden wall.

"During the catastrophe in the streets today, I knew something was wrong, _off_ if you will, the whole time we were engaged in battle. It didn't feel like a genuine chase for more than one reason, most prevalent of which was _Why doesn't he just fly up?_ Of course, I have seen flight-capable perpetrators stuck in the single dimension of "away from the authorities" during high-speed chases in my career, so I rather foolishly chalked it up to that initially. It was only after my processor had some time to digest what had happened that it came together, and my suspicion was instantly proven when we caught up to the Horrorcon - who, Mr. Duros, was waiting for us on the garden wall of your Capitol, calm as a cybercat in the middle of a lazy summer day. _This_ is what followed."

As the Autobots and Nebulans gathered looked up at the now-unpaused footage of Snapdragon's confession, Nightbeat found himself doing the same, crossing his arms as the situation replayed itself on the command screen - and in his mind. Reflecting on the events, the Decepticon's motives seemed crystal clear and ever so simple to him. Why hadn't he figured it out before anyone had gotten hurt?

One line in the video stuck out to him more than the others and resonated in his cranial casing long after the footage had moved on. _You vile Autobots really are as unintelligent as you look._ Now, the Decepticon - who was just trying to free his allies, an admirable goal if Nightbeat had ever seen one - was back in wherever his captor was keeping them, probably imprisoned or even worse off.

 _You have no idea._

Nightbeat clicked off the screen. The officers in attendance were utterly silent and shocked at such an open admission, from a Decepticon Rebel of all people, too. Even Rodimus was quiet, optics darkened as he had some furious discussion with himself, undoubtedly about the sheer scope of the situation he had landed in.

Finally, he spoke; in a weary, neutral tone that belied the chipper attitude that he had used not ten minutes before.

"Well, Mr. Duros . . . looks like you're gonna get that revolution you were wishing for after all."

* * *

The door to the medical bay opened and a tall, white mech who was no longer the same as they had been earlier that day strolled out.

Higher thought processes were returning to them, ever slowly. They no longer thought in simple commands, actions, and observations, instead being able to recognize the unsurpassed grandeur of their surroundings, though they had no inclination to do so. They were quite grateful for the improved processor space, as it allowed them to consider the boundless limits of Lord god-President Zarak's great compassion and benevolence.

They flexed their newly-repaired digits in memory of the overworked Decepticon in the bay. At first, the Cybertronian had been happy to see them, despite his obvious fatigue and their obvious state of disrepair, and thanked them for "organizing a riot to help at least some of us escape zis infernal place," but one swift reteaching session later to educate the black mech on the privilege of merely living in god-President Zarak's Basement and the rebellious engineer was quickly cowed and quieted, healing their wounds with no further talk.

Satisfied, they moved to carry out their next mission. As they walked, they passed two Cybertronians being none-too-gently pushed to the ward, both of them trying fruitlessly to bargain with the Hybrids that pushed them along.

"C'mon, man, don't you have any compassion? Give us just a little more time! A week, at most, really! Why's Zarak keeping up this tight schedule? Snapdragon! Thank goodness! Help us out, please!"

The ungrateful Decepticon reached out for them in a pleading gesture, but they simply pushed the small blue robot back into the arms of a waiting ally. "Silence, worm! Quiet yourself and accept the glorious bonding process of Lord Zarak's grand plan!"

"Ow! What the scrap, Horrorcon? Let - ow - let go of me!" the soon-to-be Peace Warrior protested as he was swept off of his feet by the Hybrid and carried off in the direction that they had come from.

They continued towards the broken access hatch on the other side of the Basement. The more time wasted on trivial matters, the more time the still-loose rebels had to get farther away from the Capitol. Time was crucial, but they would need assistance to round up the wayward soldiers.

Something like a faint, yet persuasive, voice echoed inside their mind. Ruffled, they turned to their right to see the prisoners that had been recaptured being herded back inside the prison. An unremarkable, if mildly satisfying sight, but they found their vision drawn to one mech in particular. He was a bulky purple, black, and white Headmaster, like they themselves, with long arms and a brutish posture. With arms securely bound in stasis cuffs, he was being pushed into the prison by a stout white Cybertronian with a tail, his head wrapped in some sort of gauze-like material.

"Get in there, Horrorcon! You're lucky I don't rip you apart for what your friend did to me! Stop stalling!" the white Decepticon barked.

"Enough!" they shouted, approaching the caravan of rioters. The allied Enforcer glanced over his shoulder, saw them approaching the line of prisoners, and screamed "Don't hurt me!" as he dove behind a nearby security booth.

They pointed at the Decepticon. "We've decided to grant you amnesty, Cybertronian. You are now on probation through the good graces of a devoted servant of High Lord Zarak. Follow us. We need the extra manpower if we are to quickly capture the escaped prisoners. Do not think about stepping out of line, or we shall send you back to the prison with a new beating to show for your betrayal."

The Decepticon - Apeface - was stunned, even as they entered the newly authenticated codes into the stasis cuffs, freeing him. "Snapdragon?! But you - what - what the slag's going on here, you maniac? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

His former friend, however, began to walk towards the ruined hatch, ignoring the increasingly confused questions that the Saboteur spoke. "Keep up, Decepticon. This is an amazing opportunity you have been blessed with."

"But what happened, frag it?!" Apeface shouted desperately, grabbing hold of their shoulders so that he was staring them straight in the optical array. "No fragging way Zarak would let you just walk free after what you did today! Tell me what went down in there!"

Then, with sobering clarity that hit as hard as if he had been dropped into a sea of frozen-cold liquid, he realized something within his friend's optics - or rather, the lack of something that had defined the draconic Interceptor ever since they had been on-lined together all those years back.

"Oh, Primus . . . you're not _him_ anymore, aren't you?" he whispered in disbelief.

The creature that had once been Snapdragon shoved away from his arms, leaving them just hanging in midair, reaching out to touch something that they could never hold again. "Refrain from touching your superiors, Cybertronian. Now come. We must find Honorable god-President's wayward children before they go too far to recover."

With that, they transformed into their fighter jet form and rocketed out of the Basement. Apeface stayed behind for a few moments. It was almost as if a tangible part of him had been ripped right out of his chest, leaving him as blank and emotionless as his lifelong companion had become.

FIN

* * *

 **Heart of the Demons:** Thanks, friend, I appreciate it! It's good to know that you like my characterization.

Yeah, I'm really glad Feasant let me use his characters . . . the storyline just flows so much better with them! Besides, it's super nice to use characters with an already-fleshed-out backstory rather than ones that I have to make up on the spot. I feel it has a much better impact on any potential readers to write about characters with personality and motivations instead of plot devices with crudely-described appearances. ;)

* * *

 **Author's Note:** Hope you enjoyed the story! I certainly "enjoyed" writing it . . . for three and a half months. Jeepers creepers. A little excessive, is it not?

Anyways, I have **BIG** news to share, so make sure you're sitting down for this . . .

You sitting down? Good. Well, anyway, it's come to my attention that my early chapters of this very story are of a considerably lower quality than the later ones (if you can count this tripe as "quality", that is) so I have elected to tunnel through the entirety of this fic like some profane sandworm, tying up any loose continuity problems, making some select things clearer, maybe lengthening the earlier chapters a bit to keep them up to par, that sort of thing. It shouldn't take _too_ long, but just to let you guys know, the chapters MAY be different than the originals in the upcoming couple of weeks.

Thank you all so much for your continued support, and I look forward to reading any reviews you may have for me, because remember ~ I can't fix my work if YOU don't tell me what's wrong with it! My gratitude.

-The Doctor (Do)


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